


The Cure or the Kill

by MaybeItsJustMyType



Series: Gods, Fates and Mortals [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Healer John Watson, Sea Monsters, Sherlolly - Freeform, Smut, Sorcerer Sherlock, Soulmates, Talking Animals, Witches, filthy fairy tale, light/dark magic, sexy sherlolly dream visits, trees are alive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 01:25:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4544802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaybeItsJustMyType/pseuds/MaybeItsJustMyType
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly’s father the healer has died under mysterious circumstances; headaches and a tumour in the shape of a M on his stomach. John Watson is the new healer in town and is willing to apprentice Molly.</p><p>When Healer Watson learns of Molly’s own headaches he believes her to be cursed and in need of a visit to a sorcerer; Sherlock of the Holmes Clan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Soulmates?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sherlockian_87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlockian_87/gifts).



> This fic came about when my dear friend sherlockian 87 had been plagued with migraines, I intended on writing a fluffy one shot with Sherlock looking after a sick Molly, I wrote a paragraph or two and then had to break to read my eldest his bedtime story, it was a few chapters of the Adventures of the wishing chair and it featured a sorcerer. I accidentally fell asleep with my son and I had a dream in which Sherlock was a sorcerer, this is the result of that dream..
> 
> Also I would like to give heartfelt thanks to my beta, OhAine, I do not know what i did to deserve such a wonderful beta, she fits me perfectly, if I had a beta tailor made to perfection she would be the end result, how lucky for me then that I happened to stumble across her. 
> 
> This story is largely readable thanks to her endless patience and hard work..

“Molly?” Jesika Hooper’s soft voice floated, disembodied into her room.

“Yes, Mama?” Molly called back, knowing full well that Healer Watson was here and she _must_ make the right impression, they desperately needed the money an apprenticeship could offer.

Steadfastly ignoring the part of her mind that was pulling out the pieces of memories pertaining to why they were in such a hopeless situation; like a child excited about a jigsaw, her wayward monkey-brain was trying to piece it all together.

“Are you ready to receive? Healer Watson is here love," her mother's voice was artificially bright, friendly but brittle. Meeting the man wishing to take over your dead husband's legacy was bound to be fraught, hoping to convince him to take an unmarried female in her prime as his apprentice was not a task for the faint hearted.

Shaking her head in an attempt to dislodge the intrusive thoughts, she called back, “One moment Mama!”

She smoothed down her dress and checked that her apron was still free of smudges and marks and sitting evenly. Pinching her cheeks, she took one last look in the glass. Making a face at herself, she sighed, “Well Miss Molly, either Healer Watson likes what he sees and deems you capable, or he doesn't, no sense in fretting.” One last nod and she twirled out through the door ready to tackle her future.

Keeping her eyes down she walked at a demure pace into the sitting room, hearing rather than seeing Healer Watson scrambling to his feet, only when he cleared his throat did she dare a glance.

He was short - taller than herself but that didn’t take much - blonde and stocky, with an upright bearing. It seemed the rumours he had been to war may not have been entirely without merit, though he did have a kind look about him.

Relieved, she relaxed, she had been a little afraid of him since hearing the whispers about his having been a soldier.

"Molly?" Her mother's dulcet tones intruded, interrupting her mental tangent.

"Oh! S-Sorry! Ah, Healer Watson?" She held her hand out to him in the style of a man, _not_ palm down and- ready to be kissed.

Healer John Watson looked at her hand, eyes flicking up to take in her face briefly. Seeing no malice there, just a straightforward desire to be acknowledged and treated as an equal. Well that he would happily do, he gave her hand a hearty shake. “Call me John please, no need to stand on ceremony.”

Molly smiled in return before retorting haughtily, “And you may call me _Ms_. Hooper.”

Starting in surprise, he recovered himself quickly and nodded his acquiescence.

Delighted with her trick, she laughed, gasping for breath as she urged him, “ _Molly_! Call me Molly! I’m sorry, I heard a woman say that to father once when he was treating her, I’ve wanted to say it ever since! _Ms_ ,” she repeated with a pompous shake of her head, giggling to herself.

As awareness of her inappropriate behaviour sank in, she blushed at her childish display before darting a glance at her mother to see if she'd angered her.

~o0oo0oo0o~

Throwing her a vaguely displeased look, Jessika slipped through the door to kitchen, to prepare the tea. She should have been annoyed by Molly's display of foolishness but she simply couldn't begrudge her a moment of mirth; goodness knew there had been very little fun over the last year, and the Healer did seem to be rather charmed by her. After having spent more than a few sleepless nights worrying that he would find her too young, too flighty, it would be a relief to just have the meeting over with, even if the result was not what they’d hoped for.

A troublesome thought popped up, _Was there a possibility that he may believe that taking over the healing rooms brought with it a pretty, young, blushing bride?_ Her thoughts careened wildly as she worriedly tried to formulate a polite way to ask his intentions.

In the end she stuck to the tried and true, "Will your wife be joining you soon Healer Watson? And your children? Or are your children grown?" Her smile was wide and sincere and she hoped that would at least somewhat ameliorate the harsh sting of her words.

Aware of what she was trying to convey, John smiled in return. Poor Molly, penniless and fatherless, certainly she was pretty, and still in the first bloom of youth; but with little else to recommend her - most men would not care for her intelligence - she’d be lucky to make a match at all, let alone a good one.

Meeting her eyes gently, his voice was soft, ”As yet I have neither wife nor children, perhaps the future holds both who knows, one can only hope."

Smiling in relief, she pondered, _This is a good man, maybe Molly could grow to love him in time? No, she’s a hopeless romantic, just like her father was, if she doesn’t have stars in her eyes now, she never will. Besides, she’s convinced she must marry none other than the man she’s been dreaming about all year, some sort of mage judging by her description of him and at least ten years older._

~o0oo0oo0o~

Waking from a particularly fitful sleep one afternoon, she'd sketched a picture of him, depicting him as tall and forbidding; slanted, dangerous, shape shifting eyes, and a sweep of raven’s wing hair crowning a high forehead. She'd been particularly upset about not being able to get the colour of his eyes right, she’d fretted over the fact that they had kept changing, colours shifting like clouds in a stormy sky.

He had been dressed top to toe in all black, though she'd excitedly told her that he certainly wasn’t always dressed thusly, he seemed to have clothes in every possible hue. Her eyes shone as she detailed his cape, black as the night sky barely lit by a new moon, with blood red accents, it had shimmered and rippled with magic, her demeanour reverent when she explained it had appeared to be alive itself.

She'd sworn that it wasn’t just a dream, she _had_ been there. Only waking when he’d looked up from his task and their eyes had caught, she’d described his reaction as total shock, tempered by the barest flicker of interest, swiftly replaced by irritation, he’d waved an elegant, bejewelled hand at her and mumbled a long string of consonants.

Stomach whooshing as everything around her had swirled and shivered and flew apart, she’d closed her eyes against the sensory overload feeling dazed and moments later she’d woken in her own bed.

Though Molly had faithfully promised to stop trying to dream about him after that, Jesika was well aware that she had just become more careful about hiding it, from the mage as well as herself.

Every time Jesika thought on it she became more fearful, _No good will come of this, why was it happening? And why to my family? Have we had not had enough bad luck already?_

Just as she had finally made up her mind and had drawn a shaky breath intending to ask The Healer his advice on the subject, she was interrupted by Molly sweeping back into to the room, baring a tray laden with lemonade, tea, scones and freshly churned butter.

_Who knows how differently everything may have played out if she had not been distracted?_

~o0oo0oo0o~

The first week went by without event, John and Molly found each other pleasant company. They were well matched, both taking pride in clean work surfaces, exercising saintly patience with the more vocal patients and both easy going so there was no conflict - no spark either, to her mother’s disappointment.

It was a pleasant surprise for John to find that Molly was far closer to being a healer herself than a helper; her only lack that of practical experience, she’d obviously read her father’s healing codex whenever she’d had a chance, inhaled them might be a more apt description.

Early in the second week, after lunch a Migraine set in. Molly was mortified, _To get sick, to appear unreliable_. Shamefaced she explained that she would be unable to work for several days.

Taking it in stride, John entreated her not to worry, kindly assuring her that he had been far from busy, it’s still rather quiet - people don’t quite trust him yet.

Molly smiled wanly at his joke.

All the positivity she had been feeling waned once the headaches returned, she had been settling in well with John at work, and she’d dreamed about _him_ twice this week.

Both times she managed to elude his notice, the first time he’d been surrounded by tubes of coloured liquids, powders, all gleaming and sparkling with life. He’d been mumbling to himself as he prepared some sort of potion - or so she’d thought, only to realise that he’d been mumbling at a pretty little tortoise shell cat he'd referred to as Toby.

After realising that the cat had _answered_ _him_ , she'd very nearly given her presence away. Her double take and gasp combo _should_ have alerted him - fortunately at that exact moment _Toby_ had coughed, a hacking fur ball, gasping for air.

The tabby had then _winked_ at her and she’d stood rooted to the spot staring at him for the rest of the dream. Purring loudly, the feline had obviously enjoyed her attention.

After admonishing him several times, Sherlock had grumpily asked him what the hell he was so ecstatic about.

Choosing to ignore him, Toby had simply continued kneading the cushion he was curled up on and closing his eyes in a friendly fashion to Molly.

The second dream had been quite a sight to behold. _He_ had been bathing just moments prior to her appearance.

Standing in the shadows, she had been utterly transfixed, she’d never seen a naked man before under the age of fifty, all the men that needed help with their undercarriages had all been older, _much_ older.

He was a work of art, flawless. Porcelain skin, narrow shoulders that appeared pleasingly broad on his lean frame, further accentuated by a slim waist, creating a beautiful form and shape that made her heart stutter. Dark hair forming a trail that began under his belly button, like a beacon pointing her gaze in the right direction, legs lithe and shapely, when he turned away his arse was high and round.

Again and again her gaze found its way back to where that arrow commanded she focus her attention, her cheeks glowed with shame but she didn’t turn away. Never had she imagined that she would be the type of girl to want a man so ferociously, to want to hold and be held, but oh she did. Fingers flexed and curling, desperate to wrap themselves around him, her sex pulsing deliciously between her legs.

_So this was what people whispered about, got themselves in trouble for, she had thought the other girls **ridiculous** , to throw their futures away, just for a sloppy tongue pushed into your mouth._

Her one and only kiss had been at a harvest dance and it had been wet, her only thoughts had centred on germ transfer. Her father having warned her when they were tending to open wounds that germs lurked in bodily fluids.

Although she thought it extremely unlikely that this extraordinary sorcerer would do any task badly, it would be worth it, even should it be clammy, just to _touch_.

Excitement dimmed when she considered that the one time he’d noticed her presence he’d sent her away. The thought that he’d simply sent her out of the dream, there had been no lecture, no sermon on why it was rude to spy, provided a small measure of comfort. Though on the other hand, maybe that wasn't such a succour, he’d flicked her away with about as much care as one would take with a house fly.

That had still been the high point of the week, from there it had only gone downhill. Another migraine had wrought her incapable of working. Three days off, back at work for two days, then off again for a further four days.

Feeling thoroughly wrung out after such an episode, she returned to work absolutely full of apologies and begged John to please give her another chance.

Waving her off, his concern plainly visible, “Molly? How long have these headaches been this bad?”

“They started when my father,” Molly sucked in a breath, “When he got sick,”

“I’m sorry to ask such a delicate question Molly, how did he die?”

“He started getting headaches when the leaves began falling,” she began haltingly, “By the time the sheep had begun lambing a black lump formed on his stomach, rather like the shape of an M,” she explained.

Obviously coming to a decision, John nodded to himself. “I’m going to take you to see a sorcerer.”

Staring at John, she neither moved nor made a sound, after a moment she regained her senses and frowned, before repeating, “A sorcerer? You know a sorcerer? Light?” Swallowing, she twisted her fingers, "Or _dark_?"

" _Light_ Molly, you need not fear him, or me, there's no trick afoot, I think you’ve been cursed.”

John watched in horror as Molly fainted dead away. Diving forward, he managed to break her fall, getting under her in an awkward fashion with mere seconds to spare. Adjusting her body carefully, he carried her to the couch, he couldn’t help but notice that she weighed as little as a child.

Regaining her senses, she found John hovering over her body waving smelling salts under her nose and calling her back to consciousness. There was a blanket draped thoughtfully over her to retain her modesty in the event of her dress flipping up.

Once Molly had some time to shake off her fainting spell, they set off on foot to the heart of the forest, to where the sorcerer lived. John explained on the way that the sorcerer was a good man, his magic light, _but_ he can appear quite abrupt and on more than one occasion he has been mistaken for a dark mage.

A short walk later they arrived at an empty clearing in the forest. Molly was thoroughly confused, looking around and frowning at John. With another man she may have been concerned that he had brought her here with ulterior motives in mind, an isolated spot where she couldn't be heard screaming, but she had been around him long enough to know that he had no desire to hold a violent sort of power over anyone.

Chuckling at her confusion, John whistled three long and two short notes, he was met with an answering call to which he responded with four short and four long notes. A stone domicile appeared.

Molly stumbled back and landed unceremoniously on her arse.

A shadow fell over her, the Sorcerer.

Unable to make out his features, he was simply a dark spot with the sun radiating out around him, though his cape was resplendent.

An internal voice started chattering away, reminding her where she’d seen a cape recently, she shushed it, _**All** sorcerers have capes and there was certainly more than just one in a town this size._

Eyes narrowing when they landed on Molly sprawled gracelessly on his grass, it quickly became clear to him that she was here. She had found him, or been sent, the latter far more likely; she hardly looked the type to figure a way to track him down, neither by spell nor by simply asking questions and noticing.

Watching Sherlock staring at Molly in obvious recognition and shock, and _fear_? John’s eyes swivel from Sherlock to Molly and back again as he tried to figure out what he’d missed.

Finally Sherlock recovered his equilibrium and held his hand out to her.

Molly grasped it and he pulled her to her feet, allowing her to see him clearly for the first time.

When he dropped her hand like it was an ember, she reeled back staring at him with cheeks brushed with pink.

“I-It’s _you_!” Her face was filled with wonder and embarrassment in equal parts.

Eyes dark and mouth tight, his voice was icy when he responded, “Who sent you here?”

“Sherlock! What the hell is the matter with you? _I_ brought her here. Her name is Molly Hooper and she is working with me, I took over her father’s healing rooms and I think her father was cursed, he had a tumour in the shape of an _M_ on his stomach.”

Obviously shocked, Sherlock was whiter than snow, “What are your symptoms?” He asked, his voice rough.

Watching him, fear settled low in her belly, “M-My s-s-symptoms? _What_?”

He was brusque as he ushered them inside, “Come, we cannot stay out here all afternoon, we’ll have to come up with a plan.” Leading them into the house, his strides stretched far too long for either of his diminutive companions to keep pace with.

Rolling his eyes as he followed him in, John offered Molly his arm muttering “Dick,” under his breath as he did so.

Molly was silent, her thoughts stuck on the most recent dreams about him. _Would Toby be here? Would he be **talking**? Was that real or just a dream induced madness? And the tub, would it be brass and in the corner of the room on the far side next to a fireplace?_

Even as Molly and John made their way inside the dwelling it was already shimmering and fading around them, winking back out of sight.

Ever the gentleman, John signalled Molly to go first.

As Molly’s eyes adjusted to the dim lighting she became aware of three things at once. The first being that Toby was real as can be, and in fact was singing a dirty limerick while he soaked up a patch of sunshine. The second being the location of the notorious brass tub, namely that it was exactly where it was in her dream, causing her mouth to go dry.

Sherlock didn't miss her reaction to the tub, he smirked at her and her knees liquefied.

_Does he know?_ His wink suggested he had an idea. Before putting the thought aside to examine later, she realised that the fact that he knew her _and_ assumed she’d seen him naked further confirmed that the connection flowed both ways.

It would not occur to her until that night when she was alone in bed, unable to sleep after yet another dream, that he had likely guessed about her having seen him naked based on what he himself had seen.

The third, dismaying realisation was that there was a woman there. A woman closer to his age, blonde, gorgeous, open smile, busty and clearly aware of that fact by the amount of cleavage on display.

Molly’s heart sank, so her fantasies were just that, fantasies, obviously his tastes tended towards the more exotic. Molly simply couldn’t compete, her mouth turned down and she sighed in resignation.

The woman walked forward on well-oiled hips and extended her hand to Molly, her smile warm and welcoming.

_Well of course it would be, I’m no threat, I’m barely finished being a child._ Molly thought bitterly.

When she was near enough to make contact with Molly she grabbed her hand and pulled her in, placing a soft kiss on her cheek. Voice low and sultry in her ear as she assured Molly, “He’s all yours darling.” She straightened and cooed, “Mary, though _not_ contrary,” she dropped a wink and waited with barely disguised amusement while Molly struggled to formulate her reply.

" _Oh_! Molly! Sorry, I don't come with a rhyme," she twittered nervously, overwhelmed.

Mary grinned, "I'm sure there are plenty of other things to recommend _you_ sweetheart.” Flicking her gaze purposefully toward Sherlock who was watching the whole thing with a measured gaze, before winking at Molly and spinning toward John.

Who was clearly pleased with Mary, _rather_ pleased if his smile was anything to go by, he kissed her hand when offered without taking his eyes off of her for a beat.

“What brings you to this neck of the woods? Unless of course it’s private?” He inclined his head towards Sherlock. Hoping that she was not here as a paramour for Sherlock, he couldn't really imagine that she would be, but she could easily be a foil for some plan or other.

Sitting down next to John, rather closer than was necessary, she chuckled and flicked her eyes briefly back and forth between the other pair.

John frowned, _Was she implying that_ \- He shook his head. _They've only just met, she must be picking up on attraction from Molly to Sherlock, that’s all. Though hardly uncommon it always, **always** passed when he said something carelessly cruel and the admirer inevitably decided that his beauty was not worth the razor wire tongue housed in that pretty mouth._

Watching as his internal dialogue washed across his features with amusement, she confided, “I’m here looking for work, I’m looking to take on an apprenticeship, healing, or sorcery, your friend here seems to have no… _use_ for me, how about you?”

“ _Oh_! Well I would love to- ” clearing his throat, before seeming to find the right word, he continued, “ _Help_ , but I have agreed to apprentice Molly, she has trained with her healer father.”

“Molly will be coming to me instead now John,” Sherlock’s imperious tone brooked no argument.

Smirking, Mary winked at John and held her nails in front of her, inspecting them carefully, smiling the whole time, pleased things were going her way.

Smiling back at her in a conspiratorial fashion, he sighed, _God, she's sexy._ Wondering idly if she'd been this flirty with Sherlock before remembering himself and his duty to protest about Molly being pushed around.

He looked over at Molly expecting her to look weary or afraid, she looked… _calm_? No, _not_ calm, anticipatory. Thoroughly confused, his gaze flicked to Sherlock, who was watching Molly with a territorial look on his face, looking every bit the predator sorcerers are known to be.

Shaking his head, he looked upward as if to ask the heavens what exactly was this parallel universe he’d fallen into. “Ah, _why_? She needs her job Sherlock! Surely you can remove the curse today?”

Scoffing, “Yes, of course I can, it’s a simple curse, child’s play to remove it, _Toby_ could probably manage it.” Looking at John as though he were simple, he expanded, “It’s a simple spell, no difficulty to cast it again, or to cast _another_. So _I_ will need to keep an eye on Molly, she’ll need to come here, to be under my protection. I will nullify spells as necessary and figure out what Moriarty’s game is and put a stop to him.”

“She _needs_ her job Sherlock, they'll lose their cottage.” John was furious, Sherlock’s laissez-faire attitude to such things was fine for him, he was like a cat, always falling on his feet.

Born into immense wealth, a sorcerer of almost unparalleled talent. He'd had a rocky start in his youth and his family feared that he would be the first of the Holmes clan to practice Dark Sorcery. It had long been a source of joy (naysayers called it sinful pride) that for as far back as theirs had been a sorcerer clan, not one of their number had turned dark.

Sherlock was lauded as one of the great minds of his time, in constant demand. Matters of great secrecy that the finest minds at the palace’s disposal found to be beyond their scope, mere trifles for him to dispatch. Sought after by the Head Royal Advisor, who was of course, his eldest brother.

His Lord, Sir Mycroft, of the Holmes Clan, The official Royal Sorcerer to the King. He had retained that honour through the ceremonially swearing in and subsequent beheading of the last fifty seven Crowned Kings. Mycroft himself having been directly involved, if not outright responsible, in at least half of the deadly games of musical chairs that had played out over the last ten centuries by those seeking ownership of the crown, the power, glory and of course, the riches that came with it.

Waving his hand dismissively, “I will _pay_ her John, she can apprentice for me,” he smiled, looking pleased with himself for solving everything so expediently.

“And what if Jesika Hooper is not so well pleased with this arrangement?” John asked pointedly.

Looking no less smug, he continued, “I’ll pay her double.” Giving a sharp nod as though this sealed it, he continued, “The real question here, which you of course missed John, is _why_ , why curse Molly and Healer Hooper? What could anyone have possibly gained from such a plot? Well it’s fairly simple, it was done to hurt _me_.”

In that moment, for the first time John questioned Sherlock’s sanity. He’d always been different, not only because he was a sorcerer, but John had always understood his eccentricities for the most part and when he hadn’t, he had at least believed his heart was in the right place.

Cocking his head, he took John in, “No John, I haven’t gone mad, I’m still functioning at full capacity. For example, we are not in a parallel universe and Mary did not react to me the way she has to you, there was no flirting or interest, from _either_ party,” With his fingers steepled under his chin, he’d clearly decided the conversation was over.

Glaring, John's face clearly telegraphed that he had best make this good. Mary nodded happily and Molly was just lost in his eyes.

Looking put upon, he elucidated, “Right, well I know you’re going to make a big deal of this, but _don’t_. Molly is my soulmate.”

A hush fell over the room, even Toby stopped, his tongue stuck half way out as he peered at his master in confusion.

“She has come of age thereby activating our… _connection_ , so my mortal enemy Moriarty is trying to hurt her. It has long been my destiny to tussle with him, I would know when the time is right because I would start dreaming about her.”

John, Mary and Molly were all staring at him. Molly, though clearly somewhat less surprised than the other two still looked agog.

Thoughts whirled through her head, _Soulmate? But only the magical have soulmates? And if we are soulmates, when will we marry?_

“You mean to tell me Molly is your soulmate and you’ve been dreaming about her but you haven’t attempted to find her and she’s been at the _mercy_ of your mortal enemy?” John closed his eyes and huffed out a breath.

Sherlock had the grace to look ashamed, “Well I am planning to rectify that.” Looking down he continued, “It did not occur to me that she would be in harm’s way, I wasn't aware that _he_ would also be aware of her.” Eyes flicking to Molly, he dreaded the hate that must surely mar her features, starting in shock when instead of the much feared hate, he saw only love.   When you have been alive for a thousand years very little will shock you. Humanity does not learn new tricks, it’s the same greed, lust, thievery and murderous rage, the same dance to a myriad of tunes. But it appeared that Molly sang a different song, a pure melody, and an unbidden voice in his mind whispered that her song needed a violin to accompany it.

Tearing his eyes away from Molly, he addressed the room in general in a haughty tone, “Molly will come and apprentice for me, giving me time to be able to figure out which of her acquaintance is Moriarty.” In a softened tone, he turned to Molly and continued, “I didn’t know he would try to get to me through you, I am sorry.”

Flabbergasted, John looked on, his mouth hanging open. Mary looked like the cat that got the cream.

Staring at Sherlock, Molly finally shook her head and whispered, “I don’t understand.”

Guilt was writ large on his face, as well as his intention of doing nothing to alleviate it. He did feel badly for her, obviously she was too young to understand that being soulmates doesn't mean they will be together, his eyes implored her to please not hate him - he was just not built for love.

“Sherlock? What the hell is a mortal enemy and why do you have one?” Barking out a short laugh, John shook his head, if anyone in the world would be likely to have a mortal enemy he could think of no better candidate - with the exception of Mycroft Holmes - than Sherlock himself.

With a sigh, Sherlock took in their faces. John radiating righteous anger, Mary, whose interest was born purely of curiosity. And Molly, trying so hard to appear brave and unaffected. His heart stirred at her bravery. _Though she was but tiny and mortal, she possessed the courage of a great mage-warrior_. Pushing the thought away as not useful, he brought his focus back to the unpleasant chore waiting.

“When I was growing up I knew that we were different, it was no secret, we are mage and, as such our lives have certain… _responsibilities_ that are peculiar to us. We are tasked with overseeing the earth and its inhabitants; we are the caretakers, if you will. Even amongst our kind there are those with more... _specific_ tasks assigned to them.” He paused for a moment, clearly grasping for words to down play the importance.

Molly was the first to question, “So Moriarty? He is _special_? He has a specific task to undertake?”

Grimacing, “Ah, well, nooo." He tilted his head forward, unwittingly making it clear to all that they were not being given the straight truth.

“Sherlock,” John warned, “This is serious,” his words were clipped, his face a challenge, should he dare to try and refute it.

Sulkily, he threw his hands up and answered. “Moriarty is a dark mage, he has no specific task, he vows to simply create chaos, but he has sworn to defeat me. His wish is to lead the world into a time when man is cut off from nature, and indeed other humans, and the planet will die. If he can defeat me, human kind will lose interest in looking after the planet and it will begin.”

Molly’s eyes flicked to Toby to see what the tabby thought of these developments, evidently he’d either heard them before or they didn’t bother him.

Easily noticing where her gaze had gone, he informed her, “Nothing would change in Toby’s lifetime.”

“How do you know all of this anyway?” Mary wanted to know, Molly and John nodded along eagerly, clearly pleased with the astuteness of the question.

“The White Witch Hudson came to my parents when I was born with the prophecy. My parents were given to understand that my soulmate would be a mortal girl and when she was finally born and had come of age, it would begin. She would not be mage, but she is special none-the-less, she is the catalyst. The dreams would begin and she would find me. I didn’t know that he would know about you, but it makes sense, she has a counterpart, a dark witch known simply as The Woman, she of course, makes herself useful to Moriarty in these things.”

“I am mortal, how can I be your soulmate? Only the mage have soulmates? I won’t live for eons.” She asked nervously.

Sherlock blushed and John’s mouth dropped, “She will if you..”

Grinning, Mary and nudged John, whispering, “I do so _love_ to be right!”

Confused, Molly’s eyes sought Mary for clarification. When Mary winked salaciously at her, Molly’s mouth dropped open. _Did she mean..? She cannot mean..? With him..? **Me**..? I’m not beautiful enough for him._

Mary and John turned to each other and began working out the details of Mary coming to replace Molly, which certainly seemed the appropriate course of action with Molly set to learn how to be a Sorcerer’s assistant.

Attempting to distract himself from his embarrassment, Sherlock picked up a book.

Molly was flummoxed, everything was happening regardless of her feelings. _She would of course, agree, she’d do **anything** to be around him, but he seemed to regard her as a nuisance, to be protected as a matter of duty, of honour, but not one of love._

Looking around the room, trying to glean some understanding of what was going on, her eyes landed on Sherlock again.

His eyes were boring into her, causing her to flush, sending sparks of desire crashing down to her groin. Face registering something akin to shock, whatever he had seen or felt caused the book that he had in his hand to suddenly become useful to place in his lap.

Molly’s eyes drifted to the placement of the book, her mouth went dry. Closing her eyes for a moment, a vivid image scrolled across the inside of her eyelids.

_The sorcerer lifted her and placed her against the door, holding her up while simultaneously pushing a thigh between her legs, helping to ease the ache building there. Ripping her dress open, he pulled the crisscrossed laces hard enough to rip them, before burying his head in her chest. Caught in her tumble of hair that framed them in waves, when his mouth pulled a nipple in and sucked **just** **so** , she gasped and shivered._

When her eyes flew open, she shook her head trying to and dislodge the thoughts. Casting a wary eye around the room she was relieved to see John deep in conversation with Mary who-is-never-contrary. Sighing, she relaxed, until her eyes alighted once again upon the sorcerer.

Cocking his head to one side, his expression was that of someone trying to ascertain whether or not a situation may be dangerous but struggling due to no prior experience with this particular menace to draw from.

Molly stared back at him, chest heaving. Feeling as though she was under a spell, she pushed forward, placing her hands on the arms of the chair she was in, got to her feet in one seamless, graceful motion and walked to him. Slowly, purposefully making her way, the rest of the room had dissolved around them, only they two were left.

Matching her breath for breath, Sherlock’s tongue darted out to soothe his cupid’s bow lips. Unconsciously his legs widened, invitingly, without ever taking his eyes off of hers. Removing the well placed book he placed his hands back on the arms of the armchair but they were not still; they twitched and moved, they desired to push and pull, they desired to grab and squeeze.

Stopping in front of him, Molly lifted her skirts, then climbed into his lap, straddling him. His prominent erection ground into her core as she leaned in and, taking his face in her hands, cupped it possessively and began kissing him fiercely.

In unison they moaned as he roughly palmed her breasts through her thin muslin dress.

Molly cried out when he began thrusting up into her, taking a hold of her hips he used his grip to circle her hips giving them both the friction they desired.

“Oh, oh, oh, I don’t understand - _ahhhh_.” Molly flushed, mouth open, body rigid as she came undone.

He joined her, his movements becoming jerky.

Pulling back, she looked into his eyes, he kissed her passionately again before the world took on a shimmery elastic shape and everything faded to black.

~o0oo0oo0o~

Panting and shaking, she woke in her own bed. Desperately confused, she tried to recount her steps. _How did I get home? Did I…whatever that was? In front John and Mary?_ She covered her face with her hands, the heat pouring off her skin matching her shame in its intensity.


	2. The Rain Maker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly needs to convince her mother to let her apprentice for Sherlock the Sorcerer, what could possibly go wrong? Almost everything..
> 
> Meet Billy Wiggins the Rat, Irene Adler makes her first appearance and Sherlock investigates into Moriarty..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still for my darling Streets. It's a monster chapter, I'm exhausted!! I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> I have to say a huge 10 000 word thank you to my beta Ainé for wading through this under less than optimal conditions and still finding and fixing all the bugs.. Any mistakes that remain are due to my misunderstanding, communication through email is less than ideal.

Sunlight drenched Sherlock’s bedroom, he lay stretched out on his bed, fingers steepled below his chin, deep in thought. His mind kept circling back to the problem of Moriarty. Restless, he jiggled his legs and twitched about, finally leaping up to find Toby.

He walked into the kitchen, looking around, no Toby. _Lazy little-lay-about_ , he thought to himself. _Damn lucky for him he’s a magician’s cat, he’d make a rubbish mouser._ He stood with his hands on his hips, thinking.

Sighing, he opened a window and whistled once, short and sharp. The house slowed and a brown rat scaled the wall almost instantly, though not the one he needed. Sherlock frowned at Timothy sitting on the window sill. “Where’s the elder Wiggins?” He demanded to know.

The little rat twitched his whiskers thoughtfully, “Billy’s been gone since you sent him out, yesterday.”

Tilting his head, eyes darkening, he repeated, “Yesterday?”

Bobbing his head up and down, his whiskers swept through the air as he did so, “He was supposed to bring me food back.” He finished pitifully.

Nodding brusquely he turned toward the kitchen, soon returning with two large hunks of cheese. Holding out one, he held the other back momentarily, watchful as the youngster tucked the cheese into his cheek.

“I’ll send Toby after him, if Wiggins comes back before he can be found, give him this.” Holding the cheese aloft, just out of reach, he admonished the small rodent, “ _Do not eat both yourself_ , and when he’s eaten, send him to me.” He offered the other hunk of cheese, then waited for Timothy to take the cheese and hide it away in his cheek before slowing the house to let him off; he’d learn in time - just as Billy had - to negotiate the spin without help.

Puffing out a tired breath, he turned away; Toby would have to be sent after Billy. Sherlock loved Toby, _adored_ him, but he was no Red Beard.

When he’d come of age his power had begun manifesting, his gift had taken shape. Plants began to bloom at night in his presence, wilted flowers would return to life and animals began whispering his classmates’ secrets to him. From the first time he had followed him home, Red Beard had been ever ready and willing to serve his master.

It became obvious to one and all that The White Witch Hudson was right; he was the guardian of the natural world, and with that mantle came a prophecy. He was tasked with defeating a dark Mage who would lead humans astray, tempting them with futures full of riches which would ultimately erode the planet. He _loved_ that aspect of his destiny, embraced and welcomed it with open arms.

There was however, another piece of his destiny he was _not_ willing to indulge; the taking of a soulmate. A mere mortal girl who wouldn’t be born for generations, and no way to tell who she would be or even _when_ she would be. The identity of the maternal line had been cloaked from view by the Gods themselves.

The prophecy claimed that the Dark Mage could only be defeated with the mortal girl by his side but he’d scoffed at that idea, he didn’t need the help of a mortal girl to help him defeat the darkness.

His animals were his network, his eyes and ears, the rest was a matter of using his intelligence and his gift. He would find the dark one he was being pitted against while protecting the girl, before sending her away to have a perfectly normal life without him.

Love was a dangerous disadvantage and he would not fall prey to it.

As usual Toby lay sprawled on the floor, his tummy fur still damp from a thorough cleaning. Having decided that a nice little post-clean nap was in order, he’d found a patch of sun and twisted himself into a position to best allow his fur to dry, hearing boots approaching. he cracked a weary eye, immediately letting it slip shut again, hoping to convey his exhaustion to his demanding master.

Clearing his throat warningly Sherlock waited, Toby burrowed his head under his front paws trying to shut him out. He gave up and opened his eyes when he felt long, slender fingers scratching him behind the ears in his favourite way.

“How may I best serve you master?” Though he was purring, his voice held no enthusiasm for the task, just a grudging acceptance that Sherlock was his master and had given him the gift of thought and speech independent of his proximity to him. He loved him though and would swear his fealty to his lordship until his dying breath as Red Beard had.

“So indolent, Toby. I need your help to defeat the dark or all is lost.” The pain in his master’s voice at this admission tore at his heart.

“Sorry Master,” ducking his head in shame, “I will endeavour to serve you better.” Leaping to his feet he stretched his body, arching his back, first up and then down, attempting to shake off his torpor. “What is your will?”

“I need you to go and find Billy, he’s been gone since yesterday, left Timothy without food and hasn’t been back. I sent him to track down the origin of the increase in Magic, there have been far too many changed futures lately.”

Clearly on the verge of arguing, he opened his mouth and flicked his green eyes to Sherlock. What he saw there worried him, he seemed… _sad_. Toby knew why too, ever since the dream connection with his soulmate had begun, loneliness rolled off of him in waves. His master was already in love with her but wouldn’t admit it and it was tearing Toby’s heart asunder. He couldn’t understand why his master wouldn’t embrace her, when she so obviously yearned for him too.

Giving him a final affectionate head-butt as a farewell he leapt up onto the window sill to make his way into the forest to find Billy the Rat.

~o0oo0oo0o~

Striding along through the forest, Sherlock and John kept a quick pace to keep the cold at bay. Trees helpfully bent back at Sherlock’s approach and animals watched him pass with adoring eyes. At a glance the whole forest was in love with the arrogant Mage, John sighed, wherever they went, trees, animals, women, men, threw themselves at his feet and Sherlock barely blinked.

John’s lips quirked when he thought about one who’s eyes had not rolled back in her head at the sight of the great Sherlock Holmes; Mary Morstan. Blonde, buxom, brains, she was the most wonderful woman John had ever met, so long as Sherlock didn’t mess this up, she would be able to continue to apprentice for him. Which led to the thought, Sherlock may well mess this up.

”Sherlock, you have to be nice, do you know how to be nice? Is that something you've learned in your never-ending existence? Jessika Hooper has no reason to trust you and every reason not to.” John was in what Sherlock had privately dubbed his grandfather mode, as if _he_ was the immortal and Sherlock an especially tall toddler let loose in the woods.

“Every reason _not_ to?” his expression made it clear what he thought of that nonsense. Drawing himself up he informed John, “I have no plans to do anything _untoward_ to her daughter.”

Images and sensations of Molly rocking against his aching manhood flooded his mind and body, the memory of her appearing in her dreams after he’d carried her home that night invading him against his will, even just remembering it, the pleasure was intense.

“Sherlock,” John warned, “That may well be part of the problem.”

Shaking the wayward and lurid thoughts away he raised a brow at John, disbelievingly, “So in your estimation my plans _not_ to engage her daughter in sexual congress will be a problem?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow in disbelief, “John I think your own desire for such activities may be colouring your judgement. I hail from the Holmes Clan, we are White Mage, I will be protecting her daughter and ridding her of her health problems.”

Gritting his teeth in exasperation, John ran his hands through his hair, “You’re missing the point, she’s unlikely to welcome with open arms the man who’s responsible for her child being in danger in the first place, the man who claims he is her daughter’s soulmate but remains unwilling to marry. She will not thank you, Sherlock.”

“Ah,” winking, he assured John, “That won’t be a problem.” Increasing his strides, he grinned cheerfully as though the problem had been solved.

Sherlock appeared to glide above the ground, John felt like an idiot scurrying along behind him on his shorter legs. Soon enough Sherlock rapped on the door sharply before sweeping his cloak around him and shrouding his face in an overly dramatic fashion.

Glancing at him, he did a double-take and rolled his eyes, “Oh yes, that’ll help. She’ll certainly trust you more looking like that.”

~o0oo0oo0o~

Jesika Hooper opened the door and took in the two men, “Healer John? Is everything okay?” Her eyes immediately catching on the obvious sorcerer’s cape, she raised a brow.

She knew that John had taken Molly to see a sorcerer about her headaches but as she’d been telling the story she had carelessly spilt a jug of cream, rather neatly halting the conversation. In the ensuing confusion the topic had fallen away and had not been approached since.

“Mrs Hooper,” John smiled warmly in an attempt to reassure her, “And of course, you’ll remember Sherlock from the other night, when he carried Molly home.” He chuckled, “She fell asleep rather unexpectedly.”

“Jesika, please,” she offered automatically, even as she furrowed her brow in confusion, “Carried Molly home?” She stepped back and waved them in, clearly deep in thought. Pausing, she stood holding the door absent-mindedly while she looked for traces of a memory that didn’t exist.

Turning to Sherlock, eyes blazing, John hissed at him, “Did you really feel it necessary to stop time in order to avoid meeting her mother for a few moments? Worried about looking like a prick for refusing your soulmate?”

Scowling in return, looking more like a scolded toddler than a mighty and powerful Mage, he whisper-yelled back, “Shut up, John.” Sherlock allowed the cowl to fall away from his face and they both sat down awkwardly.

Stepping into the room Jessika Hooper looked up at Sherlock properly for the first time before stopping dead in her tracks. “ _Oh_ ,” she nodded, then sighed. Her daughter’s fate was cast in stone, it had been set in motion long ago, the stars would not reconfigure themselves just so she could sleep better at night. She moved woodenly to a chair and sat herself down as carefully as one would a priceless vase.

Pondering her behaviour he glanced at John, who shrugged, even he had noticed her peculiar reaction.

Waving his arm and mumbling a few words of the ancient language of the Gods under his breath he moved himself out of time for a moment.

Others couldn’t grasp the concept, it wasn’t stopping time. Every practising magician on the planet would have to agree to it and _that_ was an impossibility. No, he moved a duplicate of the space he was in - along with the surrounding area - out of time. When he was finished he moved himself back in and let the duplicate dissolve, which left the world at large untouched.

A fellow sorcerer could, _theoretically_ come and find them in the space he had created but it would take a truly powerful Mage to enter another’s created space and although he’d heard myths, he didn’t believe it truly possible.

He stood, swept his cape around him and moved through the house quietly. It was easy to see the little touches of Molly that were scattered liberally, what he failed to observe however was the quirk of his lips whenever he saw anything bright, garish and essentially Molly.

Hearing Molly singing he stopped short, his first thought was to wonder if he was hearing some sort of memory contained within the walls of her home. Stopping to consider the idea, he dismissed it when the singing stopped abruptly.

Softly, Molly called, “Hello?”

Closing his eyes, he cursed under his breath; his incantation hadn’t worked on her. Of course, the soul-bond; his gift perceived her as one with him, his lips pursed in frustration.

Walking toward her he called, “Do not be afraid Molly, it’s me,” instantly regretting it. He had just acknowledged an intimacy between them that he desperately wished to deny.

~o0oo0oo0o~

Listening for her mother’s voice, she held her breath for a moment. When it didn’t follow his, a bolt of fear slammed painfully through her body, going to ground through her feet. She put her weaving down and scrambled up, eyes shining, Sherlock would fix everything.

Gathering her skirts she ran to him asking, “Is my mother okay?”

Nodding distractedly, he informed her, “We’re outside of time.”

‘Why am _I_ outside of time?” Her eyes settled on Sherlock, his cape was alive.

A sea of galaxies, in primary, bold colours, swirling and bursting into life before dwindling and making way for new flashes of light and colour to build and spin in concentric circles, dust trails flaring out in bright arcs.

Her gaze flitted to his face, he was deep in thought, his eyes mirrored his cape, universes exploded and re-formed in his multi-hued orbs as he lingered on whatever problem was diverting him.

As she stared at him, enraptured, it occurred to her that now was the time to ask him some questions, in particular about her body’s reaction to him in her dream visits.

“I need your mother to approve of you coming to me,” he explained, interrupting her thoughts. “I have a potion for you to slip into her drink, it will make her amenable to my wishes for a time.”

Glancing at her he was surprised to see she had made her way toward him, her eyes sparking with desire. His brows furrowed as he watched her advance boldly.

Ignoring his statements, her smile dangerous, she asked, “Would it make you amenable to my desires?” She reached out and ran her palms lightly up and down his chest.

His body reacted to her touch with a shiver, he clamped her wrists, arresting her movements. Her pulse thundered against the delicate pads of his fingers.

She smiled, closing her eyes for a brief moment, enjoying the contact. Leaning into him she asked breathily, “Do you dream too?”

His eyes bloomed and his breath hitched. Though she wasn't very experienced she knew when a man was consumed by desire.

Suddenly uncertain in her presence, he watched her warily. His body knew what it wanted, it yearned for what was older than time, assuring him that she was his, she _wanted_ to be taken; taken by _him_.

Stepping forward again, she closed the remaining space between them until their bodies were entirely flush.

His eyes darted to hers before skating away again as though burnt.

Molly could feel his growing pleasure at the contact, seeking eye contact she asked him softly, “What was that, what happened?” She paused before clarifying, “On the chair.”

His expression faltered, surprised at her ignorance. Caught unaware, he fell into the pools of her chocolate brown eyes, “You don’t…You haven’t..?”

His body was insistent that this was a good thing, this was because she was _his_ and he could certainly make her feel that again. He couldn’t suppress the groan that tumbled from his lips at that thought.

Eyes widening at the sound, she reached up and traced the outline of his lips, eyes intent upon him. “What do you do to me? I’ve danced with men, been kissed too, but I never felt..” She broke off, uncertain how to explain a feeling she didn’t fully understand herself.

“Me? _Only_ me?” He sucked in a breath, his heart was pounding, his lips tingled from her touch and his eyes would not behave; they roamed the planes and valleys of her face and body greedily.

Pushing up onto her tip toes she whispered, “I want to taste you,” before pulling his lower lip into her mouth and sucking lightly.

Hissing, he stood frozen, her fingers dug into his upper arms, electricity spiralled and sparked around them wherever they connected.

With a gasp he wrenched himself loose and stepped back. “No, no, no, we can’t,” his breath swelling his chest.

Confusion and hurt battled for supremacy, as she watched him. Her lips pouted softly, her bosom rose and fell with each harsh breath drawn, her arms hung as though she’d forgotten them.

Looking down at her bereft hands, no longer clutching his arms, she uttered a forlorn, “ _Oh_.”

Observing her through hooded eyes, he saw her own were shiny with tears.

She felt embarrassed; chastised. “Molly,” he began, his voice mild.

Her eyes moved to his face, hope bloomed, however fragile.

He gave her a sweet smile, trying to make it paternal, he failed miserably; he simply looked tender. “We can’t, I’m sorry.”

Watching him, she felt defeated, tears ran down her cheeks, unchecked.

She couldn’t bring herself to care enough to wipe them away. “You don’t want me?” She seemed diminished, broken by this realisation.

His heart ached, he pulled her to him, slipped his arms around her and wrapped her in his cape. He missed the shift in colours, the galaxies blooming with subtle, pastel colours, golds and silvers sweeping into bronzes. Whether he was willing to acknowledge it or not, their connection was real and extremely powerful.

Hearing another sob burst from her throat his stomach clenched. He tilted her head up and kissed her softly, sweetly on her lips, lamenting it even as his mouth moved against hers.

Her arms came up and her hands threaded through his hair. She gasped in pleasure and his hips bucked involuntarily, pushing his already engorged prick into her belly.

She moaned and the sky opened, torrential rain pouring down, any further noise they made drowned by the susurrus sounds. In Molly’s mind she was kissing him in the rain, the heat of their bodies turning the rain to steam. Rivulets of water running down her neck and between her bosoms, flowing over the parts of her that ached.

Stumbling back, breathing hard, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the sweet taste of her mouth far too tempting.

His expression was that of anguish, his voice a whisper when he told her, _begged_ her, “I _can’t_.”

The smell of rain permeated the air, lush and green and life affirming.

Awareness of it settled in slowly, the rush of rain should have drowned out the words but she heard him.

Far too late he would come to realise that of course she could hear, _she_ made that rain and the question of who she was in all of this would become paramount.

He would see that the rain belonged to her and her to it, but by then it would be too late. By the time he understood he’d long since sent her away.

“Can I still come to you?” Her chest was heaving, her lips ruby, puffy and smeared as she looked at him, fear clouding her eyes.

“ _Yes_ ,” the tone sounding like he was the one was begging. He swallowed hard and bit out, “But I can’t touch you.”

Clenching and unclenching his hands, he forced himself not to reach out for her. Repeating to himself over and over, like a mantra, _The connection, it’s only physical, only physical, only physical_. His only hope lay in the possibility that if he repeated it enough he would believe it himself.

He held his hands out for a moment before dropping them in confusion, “Let’s sit.”

Swallowing, Molly nodded mutely and led the way to the table. She sat down and gestured for him to sit. Her eyes roamed, noting the extraordinary detail in the doubling of everything.

Sherlock spoke causing her to jump, “Yes, there are duplicates of your mother and John.”

Open mouthed she stared at him for a beat before asking in a croak, “You can read minds too?”

Shaking his head impatiently he waved the question off, ”Molly, how does your mother know me?"

His gaze was hot on her skin, suddenly shy she ran her palms over her exposed arms almost expecting to feel the skin bubbling into blisters, instead goose bumps flared and rippled.

“I- ah, I drew you, when I.." She broke off unsure how to continue, her manner subdued, whispering now, "I didn't really believe you were real, you were too perfect." Colour bloomed in her cheeks as she admitted, "I showed her, I thought it was a fairy tale, I said we were to marry."

Looking down at her hands, she threaded her fingers together in loops; slotting them together again, before tearing them apart and rolling them around to begin anew.

Sherlock was shocked to feel guilt worm its way into his heart. She was absolutely correct in her reading of the situation, they _were_ supposed to marry.

She was his soulmate and not only was he denying her but he was embarrassing her when it was within his power to so easily assuage her humiliation. _He_ was the one in the wrong and yet he said nothing, kept his features neutral and allowed her to continue playing the fool.

He was an absolute bastard, he knew John would scorn him for it and deservedly so.

Fear flamed in his belly; the flames licking the mouth of his dry throat. He had to stop this, he had to stop _feeling_. If he was going to have her with him he had to lay some ground rules, letting her affect him like this, creating a rain storm, he’d _never_ created rain before, he couldn't allow it to continue. Surely he was being kinder to her, ultimately, she could move on.

He shook thoughts of rain and desire from his mind, slipped into his usual cool detachment, “It won’t be like this, I will not touch you. I’m not a man to be married and have a soulmate, that’s not my destiny.” He stated imperiously.

Bobbing her head, she agreed to everything, anything, her expression earnest. She just wanted to be near him, it mattered not in what capacity.

Finally she had assured him she was more than capable of rising to the task of essentially drugging her mother into submission.

~o0oo0oo0o~

Molly schooled her features into a pleasant expression and palmed the bottle in her skirts’ pocket, letting her fingers slide over the smooth glass. This _had_ to work, so that her mother would agree to let her apprentice. She desperately wanted to go to him every day, even if he wouldn’t touch her and make her body sing. She wanted all of it, to learn magic, to talk to Toby.. Her thoughts were interrupted by a flurry of activity in the corner of her eye.

Turning her head she discovered a blackbird on the window, a little female. Tilting her head, she chirped.

“Hello! _You little dote_ , are you hungry? I can spare a little treat.” Opening the pantry door she pulled a basket forward and flipped the cloth that covered it back. Grasping the loaf of seed-cake therein she picked up the knife that lay nestled in the basket next to it and cut a thick slice for her new little friend.

She turned to offer it to the little newcomer but she was gone, shrugging, she broke it up and placed it on the sill anyway before turning away again to gather the tea things. Hearing another chirp she looked back; the little bird had returned, a gold coin clasped in her beak. Molly frowned, _Why would a blackbird have any interest in a gold coin? Only magpies clamoured after such things_. The blackbird chirped; the sound coming sharp and shrill, a scold. Molly took a tentative step back toward it, the little bird bobbed up and down a little, as if in encouragement, clearly happy with her decision. She held out her hand and the bird flapped its wings open a little and continued bouncing. When Molly was close enough the little bird dropped the coin in her outstretched hand, all the while chirping madly as if in celebration.

Frowning, she looked down at the gold coin, _This could feed Mother and I for an entire moon, and feed us well_. The blackbird sat on the sill looking at the seed-cake and then at her, “Go ahead little one, go feed your babies.”

The chirp in response to this was exuberant, the little bird was pleased with the exchange. Scooping the largest piece up with her beak Molly watched as she winged away, no doubt hurrying in the hope that she could come back and claim all the pieces before another animal chanced upon them.

Pocketing the coin, she gathered the tea things, pulling out their best tray and arranging the items carefully, she made sure to place a few drops of the potion on the rim of her mother's usual cup.

~o0oo0oo0o~

Home again and away from her pervasive presence, he lay prone on his bed, he’d divested his cape and was clad only in a pair of trousers and a white linen shirt.

“Boss?” Billy called from the window sill. His head was tilted in a questioning manner, worried he was disturbing a rare sleep for his master.

Sherlock sat up, eyes brightening, “Ah, Billy,” clapping his hands together, he asked, “What have you found?”

“No one’ll speak ‘is name Boss, they all know something is happening but they're scared,” He paused, whiskers twitching rapidly, “Since when is animals scared of Magic?”

Pressing his palms together and placing them in front of his lips he leant back smirking, “Since something new started happening Billy, since something was new.”

Staring at his master for a minute more the little rodent finally turned and left when he realised no answers would be coming to the questions he had in his mind.

~o0oo0oo0o~

Molly’s face broadcasted radiance as she made her way to Sherlock's house. As she approached she lifted her fingers to her mouth ready to whistle for Sherlock to come out and cease the spinning.

There was no need, he was standing outside watching for her approach. "I thought you may get lost,” he called gruffly.

Her heart exploded with happiness, his voice was brusque but his expression was soft, he cared if she was lost. She smiled demurely and looked down, "Thank you."

He noted her happiness and swirled his cape around him to cover his joy at her presence. Waving a hand, he stilled the house and made his way through the door which opened to him with a flick of his wrist. His head turned briefly to be certain she was walking in behind him.

Catching a flash of blue as he regarded her over his shoulder caused her stomach to whoosh, his eyes made her body feel things that she thought unlikely to be on the normal spectrum of human emotions.

Sunlight poured through a high round window, painting the floor with light and heat in a perfect circle. Arranged within the perfect circle looking content lay Toby. He stretched and lazily opened one eye a crack. Seeing Molly he began purring.

Laughing, she filled the room with the tinkling peals of her girlish giggle and ran to Toby. Rucking her skirts around her and kneeling down next to him, she began to stroke his fur soothingly.

Sherlock stood with his arms folded, his expression carefully neutral, why should he care if Toby and Molly got along? He didn’t, he assured himself, he didn’t care a bit.

~o0oo0oo0o~

A routine was established between the pair and settled into quickly. Molly would make her way to him every morning after doing her share of the chores at home and he’d be outside his place waiting for her, as the days passed he seemed to be coming a bit further of the way and collecting her.

Barely a few steps into her walk Molly would find Sherlock on the path, jaw set, eyes flashing, though not with anger, with fear. His manner would be brusque in an attempt to cover his concern but she could see the truth of his emotions. While they walked his eyes would seek hers again and again, his cape swirling and whirling with colours and life, brushing against her and flaring with sparks of velvety, chestnut browns. Animals would come and watch them from the trees and chitter excitedly, they didn’t speak but they could have in his presence.

More and more often his hand would brush accidentally against hers as they walked, his finger would stroke absentmindedly along her own, the touch of his skin on her own sending shivers of pleasure radiating through her. Until, finally, one morning, his hand linked fingers with her own. Each and every time he did this he would mutter about her being too slow and use his hold to drag her along.

Molly smiled happily as she half-jogged to match his pace, she knew he was lying.

During the days spent together their movements were like a well choreographed dance. Molly instinctively knowing what he needed at any time. Due to her medical knowledge she knew the names and whereabouts of the various herbs and plants he used, she also was familiar with where they grew or which market they were best bought from and at what price.

She was also able to obtain honey without being stung, which apart from himself he’d never seen another capable of doing so. It shouldn’t have been possible. She had just shrugged when he asked her about it, told him that animals and insects and birds had always been calm with her. Then she’d laughed and told him, “Even us mere mortals have gifts too Sherlock, maybe not to the extent of the Mage but we’re capable of speciality.”

Never before had he managed to get so much done. Not only was he able to help the people who came to him with problems to solve that were beyond their own facilities, he was also getting serious experiments done and Molly could be counted on to understand the experiment and even offer him useful advice. It pained him to admit it, even to himself, but his life was much improved in every way by her presence; so much so that he felt there absence every Sunday when she stayed home.

~o0oo0oo0o~

For the last few days she’d been late due to her mother feeling unwell, Jessika Hooper had been quick to wave away her daughter’s concerns, assuring her it was nothing and she shouldn’t worry, that she needed rest and she’d be fine before long. Molly didn’t believe her, after watching her father waste away she knew the signs and she was getting frightened.

She’d noticed her mother being very careful with her stomach that morning and she’d known immediately. Her mother had what her father had succumbed to. Leaving the house early, she ran all the way to Sherlock.

He’d been outside talking to a bird from what she could see. He gestured her to come inside, barely glancing her way and she’d walked in behind him, tears dried now, a different focus in mind, she needed to forget, just for a moment.

He’d turned around to ask her why she was so early and the words had simply died on his lips. She was breath-taking, hair wild, eyes hooded and shining, lips parted.

On shaky legs she took two steps toward him and launched herself against his chest, looking up at him she pleaded, “ _Kiss me_.” He held her wrists, swallowing hard at the feeling of her small nubs brushing against his chest so enticingly..

His thoughts were in turmoil, his body was insistent, _She’s perfect_ , his hormones whispered. He looked into her soft brown eyes, they were darkened with desire, love for him shimmered and danced like a flame.

His face softened, if he’d been able to see himself in that moment he would have been appalled. He wore the look of man in love. He grasped her arms and lifted her, turning, to hold her against the wall. His mouth gravitated towards hers like a compass points north, he couldn’t fight it.

Thunder cracked the sky the moment their lips touched, water fell in great sheets.

Molly moaned and he released her wrists, his hands flowing over her breasts, waist and stomach, allowing her to slide her arms around his neck. Her mouth was soft, she opened for him so easily, a flower blooming at the height of spring, breathy moans escaped her lips.

His cape transported them both to their own universe.

Lightning danced across the tops of the trees, rain, whipped by the wind, lashed against the windows.

Sherlock steadfastly ignored what it may be saying that he was creating this kind of storm just from kissing her.

Without thinking he began walking backwards, leading Molly to his bed. Her legs came up around him and she used her position to grind her sex against his cock. He could have hammered nails with his prick he was so eager for her. He let a hand drift down, he just wanted to feel her, even if only once. Pushing a hand under her skirts he skated all the way up her slender, smooth, thigh until he reached her knickers. Trailing his fingers along the seam where the cloth met skin he felt her slick wet heat through the cotton.

Her hands clutched his head, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss, her movements frantic. When he brushed his thumb across her clit she cried out.

When the back of his knees - finally - connected with the mattress he allowed her to push him down and climb into his lap, straddling his thighs. Her body trembled with desire for him, the force of her need undoing his good sense. He tugged at her dress impatiently, freeing her breasts, his palms covered them perfectly, they were flawless. Longing to taste he bent his head and sucked a nipple into his mouth, he relished the gasp and buck of her hips. She tasted of wood smoke and salt as he rolled his tongue around, she was intoxicating.

Outside the wind roared through the trees, lightning flashed again and again in time with each throb of his desire. Rain fell, the drops as fat as honey bees, as if the sky had been cracked open.

Her back arched as she ground down on him, calling his name, with a voice sweetened by pleasure. She fumbled at the drawstring of his trousers, still as desperate to hold him as she had been when she’d spied him naked. Plunging her hand into his under things she wrapped her hand around him.

The trees swayed and whispered, rustling their leaves, telling tales of love, though some of the tales were sad, after all, not all lovers get their happy ending.

“ _Oh_ ,” she had not expected the silken feel of it, sliding her hand along she came to the tip and brushed her fingers lightly over it. His answering moan around her breast sent vibrations travelling directly from her nipple to her core. Instinctively her hand began sliding back and forth, with her other she combed her fingers through the hair around his bollocks. Murmuring surprise that the hair was coarser than her own, she sighed blissfully.

Thunder crashed in the sky, nature’s cymbals. The lightning was chasing it and the rain threatening a flood, they all sang to the trees to come and play.

Each jagged breath he took chased the tail of the next. Her tiny hand applied sinful, delightful pressure. He bunched her skirts up and squeezed her sex through her knickers. Her hand stilled briefly as she was overcome by sensation. He yanked the ties so they fell away, which left her tender mound exposed. Caramel coloured silky curls spanned her pubic bone and her sex glistened in welcome.

The house was now teetering off of its foundations as the trees reached out with their nobbled fingers and rocked it back and forth.

He bit his own lip hard, hoping to dissuade himself from the thoughts he had of lifting her onto his prick. Groaning as a thought flitted through his head, of how her channel would fit him like a glove.

A voice whispered in his mind - or was it a spirit whispering in his ear? He was too far gone to know the difference - reminding him, _She is your soulmate, her quim was made for you_. His mind offering up a teaser of how she might taste, her come filling his mouth as her screams fill his ears.

Her hips were canting toward his touch, encouraging him as his digits caressed and plundered. He was all too aware that she would let him take her, would welcome it. They belonged to each other and if he remained too stubborn to admit this, she was not.

Triumphant, the trees had lifted the house, they spun and twirled it, flinging it between them like a ball. It whirled ever faster and faster as they lost themselves in each other. Their attention is solely for one another, nothing else exists.

She was not shy in her desire for pleasure, he watched her, slack jawed as she swiped her finger over the drop of fluid formed on his cock, she lifted her finger to her pretty mouth and sucked.

When he cursed, her eyes sought his, innocent and wide. She smiled with pure joy and returned her hand to his cock, then she leaned into him whispering, “It’s so _nice_.” Her voice was breathy, excited and surprised all at once.

With a shout he came, his seed spilled over her hand. He feared he must have frightened or repulsed her. Far from upset, her eyes were riveted, her moans at the sight were desperate. “Oh, oh my god, ah…”

Forked lightning criss-crossed the darkened sky in cobweb like patterns, spelling Molly’s name, thunder boomed in a primal beat, in time with his racing, foolish heart.

She was close, he slid two fingers inside and hungrily watched when she rocked her hips back and forth wanting more. He pumped in and out, furiously circling her clit with his thumb. His gaze flicked his back and forth from her deep, velvet-brown eyes to her pink and caramel, silk-confection-cunt which his fingers looked so perfect disappearing into.

She met his eyes before coming apart, head thrown back and mouth open as the ecstasy tore through her; her body shaking and rigid. At first her scream was silent but as her orgasm rippled her bones, melted her muscles, she shrieked his name in strangled tones.

He wasn’t aware of it yet but her cries would haunt him later, when she was gone and everything was all skewed and wrong and he had certainly lost her.

Rain sluiced the sky, incandescent drops lit the dark, each drop was a prism broadcasting miniature rainbows even in the absence of sunlight. Flowers towered as tall as the trees, they danced in the wind and cast shadows that moved in patches over the pair. Though the house still twirled it had slowed, its peak having been reached when they had achieved their own.

Collapsing on his chest, she was trembling, overwhelmed by the sensations of their shared experience.

He ran his hands over her back, circles traced absentmindedly to offer comfort, unconsciously mimicking the way he had stroked her sweet pearl.

There was a companionable sense of peace between the two.

Thunder rumbled, quietly now, a mere murmur as it rolled away. The lightning was no longer wild and forked, just bright sheets that flashed and lit the sky. The rain was tinkling, drops came slowly, then fell weightlessly to land in muffled silence.

Looking up out of the window, she realised that the sky was pink. She laughed, a sound of pure joy, she felt filled with it, as though she could just float away on the buoyancy of her emotions.

Sherlock too had laughed, “Yes, Molly, we’re outside time, when I drew you into my cape our reaction to each other fuelled my gift. Sensing my loss of focus we were moved out of time using the energy our coupling, so our safety would not be compromised.”

The mere _thought_ of having allowed himself to be compromised filled him with dread, the heaviness of it bringing him thudding back to earth abruptly, like a lead balloon. Ice filled his veins, dousing the flame of his frenzied blood pumping lust, freezing his heart and with it the worshipful love for his soul-bonded mate.

She felt the abrupt shift and sat up, the air was thick with something… _unpleasant_ , dangerous even. She fumbled with the ties on her dress, yanking them up and pulling them tight, she scrunched her underwear into a ball and squeezed them in her hand nervously. Afraid that his eyes, now so cold, would fall upon her in her vulnerable state. Confusion spiralled through her mind, he was touching her, loving her, just moments ago, until suddenly he’d become reptilian in his coldness. She shivered and a tear rolled down her cheek.

After righting his clothing he drew breath to speak. Molly’s eyes darted to him hopefully but he was rigid, his expression cold and detached, his eyes whirled and sparked with cold fury. Molly shrank down into herself, her arms folded across her chest.

He was regal and condescending, aloof and disinterested. “Obviously this cannot continue,” his hand swept out, encompassing their state of dishevelment. Disdain slipped over his features like a mask. He was no longer anything even approaching loving or relaxed. “You’ll send word through John if anything should be troubling you,” a pause and then, “ _Physically_.”

“You wish for me to stop coming here? Because of _this_?” Her vocal chords were twisted and barely managed to expel sound, her eyes were rimmed red and hot tears blinked from her eyes one by one and began their descent.

“This… _You_. You have become a distraction, I must find and defeat Moriarty and I don’t have time to babysit a mere _child_.” His jaw was tight but he was unable to hide his trembling lips.

Holding a shaking hand out, still sticky with his pleasure, she spat, “A _child_? I wasn’t a child just now, I’m seventeen years old, old enough to marry, old enough to bear children, do not dismiss me as a mere babe in the woods.”

Flushed, he nodded, “No, not a child, but compared to me, yes, you are a babe in the woods. A burden I simply don’t have time to waste on..” He gestured again to themselves and their surrounds.

Desperately trying to hide the quaver in her voice, she spoke again, “You are so much older than me, sophisticated too, and yet..”

Steeling herself she lifted her chin and fearlessly spoke her heart. “And yet, I am not afraid to love my soulmate.” Closing her eyes and pressing her lips together, she breathed a deep breath in through her nose and forced herself to meet his eyes.

The unsaid words hung in the air between them. He looked down, refusing to meet her gaze, knowing that he was right and the right thing is often the hardest path.

One last time, she tried, her voice soft but encrusted with a diamond finish, “Will you make me leave? I want to stay. I make you happy Sherlock, I know I do. You have been happy…”

Reaching out her fingers she took his hand, knowing that if she just touched him, let him feel that current surging between them again, he’d be unable to turn her out. “…With me.”

His fingers clutched hers, tightly, desperately. His eyes softened and her heart bloomed with hope, cables of tension uncoiled and relaxed their iron grip on her body; he would not turn her away, she closed her eyes and basked in the relief. She made a conscious effort not to sob with relief.

He looked at her hand in his, felt the electricity dancing through their fingertips and joining them together. Soft fingers ran themselves through his hair, her love enveloped him and made him whole. He sighed, he couldn't send her away, he was in love with her. Floating in a sea of pleasure, he shivered when Molly came and coiled herself in his lap, twining her limbs with his own.

After a time his singularly most hated but simultaneously most treasured memory forced its way into his consciousness.

Red Beard and Sherlock had been outside, playing at being pirates and running away to sea together.

Mycroft had come to inform - gloat to - Sherlock that he had just banished his sea monster. That he’d thrown away childhood things, having achieved the traditional rite of passage among their clan, he was now a man.

He'd taunted Sherlock with the news, as older brothers do. Casting aspersions on his abilities, his soft nature and inability to hurt a creature. He’d then expressed doubt in an overly concerned, syrupy voice as to whether Sherlock would manage his rite of passage in seven years time.

"After all, seven years is but a blink of an eye to our kind, brother mine.” He'd stopped and pretended to look thoughtful before delivering his final shot. "Oh, I forgot, seven years may well mean a lot to the boy with the mortal soulmate."

He'd laughed as he’d walked away and Sherlock had plotted.

By and by, after sitting through another rite and listening to Mycroft’s ridicule, he came to the ill-informed decision that now was as good a time to try and defeat a sea creature, as any.

He'd made his plans and set off to the lake with his head held high, his face was set, determined. It was now winter and he knew the lake would be empty. The festivals and rites were all done in the summer months. There was a very good reason for this as Sherlock was about to find out.

He and Red Beard had made their way in quietly. Twice Red Beard had entreated Sherlock to turn back.

Sherlock was armed with his book of spells and his wand, once he’d achieved his rite of passage he would no longer need the latter. He grinned, if all went as planned today, and there's no reason why it shouldn't, he would be a fully fledged Mage and he would be the youngest of the clan thus far to achieve it.

He’d set his book on the ground and hugged Red Beard, told him he loved him and urged him to stay back. Red Beard had tried again in vain to convince him to stop this foolishness but Sherlock remained stubborn.

The incantation to summon the water beast was easy, in fact all the Mage learnt in it fairy tales as young children. This was not perceived as dangerous, no child had ever before came and tried to brave this alone but then there had not been many children, even of the Mage, with such a destiny as this particular little boy had.

He hadn’t merely spoken the words, he’d shouted them.

The water had parted with a great rushing sound and a green spiked tail had risen up. Taking up his book he’d began the spell that would send the creature to the place beyond time and he’d possessed the power to do it too, lord help him.

What he hadn’t counted on was that there would be _two_.

For all of his power and intelligence, he was still but a boy and there was so much he had to learn about the ways of the world.

During winter the lake was deserted because on the coldest day of the year the water creature would commence its breeding cycle. A brutal blood-thirsty affair. An egg that had lain dormant since the previous winter would hatch. Upon hatching the creature would grow to full size and divide into two. The two would breed and then the two halves would fight until only the stronger remained. The stronger would lay an egg and that egg would repeat the cycle the following winter after the summer ritual.

Should there have been no ritual that summer, the newly hatched creature would fight the elder monster that already resided in the lake, leaving the victor to divide and lay the egg.

It was in this way that the creature was immortal whilst still enduring the cycle of death and life.

Having no idea of this, Sherlock had arrived near the end of this battle and though his spell was working, and well, he was only banishing the stronger of the two, unfortunately the weaker half was not yet dead.

Unbeknownst to him, it had slithered out from the water and was coming stealthily up the bank. It still had enough life force to do some damage and it was vicious enough to want to do so in spite of being nearly dead itself. It kept its eyes on the boy the whole time.

Sherlock hadn't seen it coming and it hadn't seen his ever-loyal pet approaching.

Remaining low on the ground, it had slithered along noiselessly, its green slimy skin camouflaged by the tall glass by the lake. It left a trail of burnt, dead, yellowed grass behind it as it came ever closer to the boy.

Consumed by the spell and thoughts of his own greatness and the legend he was creating out of his own rite of passage, the boy in question took no notice.

Biding it’s time, the clever monster waited for the perfect moment to strike.

Truly terrifying was the sight of the creature in the water rising up to full height, caterwauling and screaming as it burst into flame and began to cede it’s body to a pile of ash, the sight of it utterly captured the clever little Mage watching from the bank. His face was aglow with wonder and fear in equal measure, pride was there too and all bathed in the orange light of the dancing fire.

The entity on land reared up, preparing to lunge and Red Beard let loose a howl, high and long, the creature spun toward the danger. Seizing his chance the brave dog launched at it’s throat and latched on.

Screeching with fury the foul thing flicked it’s tail across Red Beard’s back again and again, leaving trails of fire burned into his delicate skin.

Red Beard refused to let go, as the blood poured freely from its open throat, it’s final act was to wrap it’s tail around the poor animal’s throat. Acid burned into his neck as he choked.

Finally, having vanquished the monster, Sherlock had leapt into the air, calling to Red Beard to look, as he turned to call to Red Beard again, feeling impatient now, he finally became aware of the fight.

His eyes landed on them at once, he was now a fully fledged Mage so a mere flick of his hand and the weakened creature dissolved.

He’d ran to Red Beard, tears streaming down his face, “I’m sorry, boy, I’m so sorry.” He’d assured him through his hitching breath, “It’s okay now boy, you’ll see, you’ll be okay. Please be okay? You _have_ to be okay, _Red Beard_!”

His eyes had fluttered closed as Sherlock pulled him onto his lap, with one last lick on his hand he bade his beloved master goodbye.

Sherlock sat holding him until night fell, tears ceaselessly rolling down his face and landing noiselessly into Red Beard’s now matted fur. Casting spell after spell trying to bring him back. But he was no necromancer.

When the moon rose Mycroft finally found him, he was in the eye of a magnificent, dry storm, that had lead him to where he sat, still holding his sweet pet. Kneeling down beside him he’d told him, “Caring is not advantage little brother. All lives end. All hearts are broken.”

With Red Beard gone, Sherlock’s new mantra became, "Alone is what I have, alone is what protects me.”

Over the years he had softened, he had allowed John and Toby into his life after being alone for more years than mortals can readily conceive of. He himself did not think of it as softening however, he thought it weakness.

But there was a world of differences between Molly, John and Toby; Healer John Watson was a former soldier, a man with the means, ability and desire to defend himself in this dangerous world.

Toby had enough magic infused into his being to protect from most things and if nothing else he could move himself out of time. Not to mention that Toby had been a stray, any life he’d had was a gift.

~o0oo0oo0o~

As the memory dissolved, though not the sadness it had reanimated, his heart pleaded for Molly; he quashed the feeling. He could and would do this alone.

She was the catalyst, it had already begun. She had served her purpose and would only be in danger should she remain in his orbit. It was time to let her go.

The thought of sending her away was a punch to his gut, guilt surged up his throat, it tasted of bile on his tongue. He would break her heart and if he was honest, his own, but he was careful to avoid the truth.

A voice whispered in his mind, _Better her heart crushed than her life lost to your carelessness_.

He knew he _must_ defeat Moriarty and regardless of what the prophecy foretold, he had to do it alone. He could not be swayed by sweet feelings, distracted by the pleasures of the flesh, he had to be strong

His next words sliced into Molly's heart.

His face was impassive, hiding his all too human heart behind a stone mask, “You will find happiness with an ordinary man, this is not the life for you. _I_ am not for you. Go home Molly.” He sighed and turned his face away, leaving Molly with the impression that he found the task of sending her away boring.

Molly let out a sob and fell forward, pulling her dress tightly around her, she stood and levelled an even gaze at him, ignoring the tears that flowed freely, “You are a _coward,_ Sherlock Holmes.”

Though his eyes shone with tears he wouldn’t look at her or acknowledge her presence, his only thought, repeated endlessly, _Alone is what I have, alone protects me_.

Her footsteps were soft as she crossed the floor, it would occur to him later to wonder how she left without him to slow the spin.

~o0oo0oo0o~

In the forest, not too far away, Irene Adler, known as ‘ _The Woman_ ’ among the Mage, stood tapping her elegant leather-shod foot, looking about as interested in the outcome of what she was watching as another may appear watching an insect that they had crushed struggling with the loss of its life.

Her eyes were trained upon an old woman who was being held up in the air, against a tree, by an invisible force. The woman grasped at her throat as the breath in her body dwindled, still trying to beg even as she turned purple.

Irene, bored, sighed, “Oh come now, time to die. Don’t embarrass yourself. You’re hardly a paragon of virtue, now are you? Letting Moriarty pose as your grandson in return for a future in which an accident would rid you of your husband? No one would save you, you’re a hag and you shan’t be missed.”

With an impatient squeeze of her fist, the force around the old lady’s neck tightened and her legs and arms finally stilled. She hung, slack in the air for a moment while Irene tilted her head to admire her handiwork, her smile was almost proud.

Squeezing her fists tight, she then released them in a star burst gesture and the old lady simply dissolved into vapour and was carried away on the breeze.

Hair shaking and arms waving, she spoke a string of words in a language learnt form the gods themselves. As she vibrated, the air shimmered and shifted around her and she took on the appearance and mannerisms of the old lady that she had just dispatched.

Picking up the old lady’s fruit basket she looked inside, apples, oh how lovely, yes, these would do, these would do nicely. Selecting the reddest, shiniest apple she polished it on her shawl and chanted a passage of words.

The apple glowed with a golden light and then resumed its former appearance. She smiled and continued down the path. The little mortal girl would be heading home for the day and Irene intended on using the apple to become very good friends with her. After all, anything for Jim, there’s nothing quite as nice as a man, or Mage, intent on causing harm just for the fun of it. She really could get behind such a plan.

Hearing a sob and a scuffling sound Irene quickened her steps and came upon Molly crying and holding her knee, freshly gashed on a rock as she’d fallen. She looked down at her with amusement, _Oh such luck_.

Kneeling next to her she crooned, ”Molly, darling. You've had a fright, you don't look at all well."

Inwardly she sneered, _You look like you've been well-shagged, well almost, you wouldn't be at my mercy if he’d actually sealed the deal._ Papering over the smirk that threatened to bloom with a concerned, helpful smile, she looked at the girl and waited.

Molly nodded, sadness filled her eyes with more tears than she could possibly cry.

"Well, my grandmother used to say, the best thing for a bad news," she stopped and looked at Molly who was regarding her with wide eyes. "Oh, yes, I had a grandmother, I wasn't always old."

Her face took on a wistful cast, "I was beautiful once too. I remember love.” Reaching out she patted Molly's arm fondly.

Molly smiled in return, though her breath was still hitching.

Rummaging in her basket, she went on, "As I was saying, the best thing you can do when you've had a fright is to have something sweet." Finally she found what she was looking for and held it up triumphantly.

A shiny, ripe, red delicious apple.

"I owe you an apple anyway, so this will be fine." She held the apple out with a welcoming, encouraging smile.

"You don't owe me an apple Mrs Galster." Molly assured her, even as she allowed the apple to be pressed into her hand.

Smiling and waving a hand, "Indulge me darling, make an old lady, for whom fruit has become her whole life, happy."

Irene's eyes were watchful as she held it up to her mouth, she hesitated for a beat, some niggling fear warning her not to do it.

"Go on dear, you'll feel better, I promise." Privately adding to herself, _Better, and so pliable._

The need to be polite and respect your elders, coupled with the fact that she’s known Mrs Galster for years spurred Molly on. Even as her belly clenched in fear and her mind snagged on the silent forest surrounding her - _Where are the birds?_

She bit into the apple and immediately a peculiar feeling, began in her tongue, zig-zagged up into her brain and then radiated down through her body. " _Oh_!"

Affecting not to notice, Irene turned to her basket and made a show of adjusting the contents. "You'll feel better once you tell me all about it and I've been able to give you advice. I really do remember love."

_Spinning, everything was spinning._

Molly sat down with a bump and giggled, "Yes, I need to tell you about Sherlock, he's my soulmate." She finished dreamily.

Tears gathered again along her lash-line as she remembered, "He doesn't want me," she whispered.

"Oh honey. I know someone who does. You'll find that you're a very special girl, he's not your only option. You’ll soon forget all about _Sherlock Holmes_. I’m going to take you to see Jim now, while you're feeling… _co-operative._ ” She held a hand out to the girl.

Taking the proffered hand Molly smiled up at her gratefully, “I know Jim, he’s nice..” She giggled and allowed herself to be led away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading..
> 
> Tumblr? I'm [sweet-sweet-escape](http://sweet-sweet-escape.tumblr.com) come and say hi.. It's fun over there..


	3. Every Fairytale Needs a Good Old-Fashioned Villain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's always the darkest before the dawn...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been a long time coming, thanks for sticking it out... I really worked hard on this...
> 
> Thanks so much to my beta who is simply one of the best people I've ever had the good fortune to call my friend.. Love you my Irish doll.. You worked your butt off on this too... And it's better for it...
> 
> Streets, it's still for you darling, thanks for loving everything I write without fail, it's a confidence boost..

 

A tentative voice called softly, ”Molls? Are you awake?"

Thoughts, tangled in a weave of spider's web, unfathomable. Confused, she murmured, "Jim?"

Pushing the door open with his foot, Jim appeared, a wide smile stretching his mouth. "I brought you some soup.”

"Oh, thanks," she offered listlessly.

Jim watched her, hovering with the tray and looking hopeful.

The smell of the soup permeated the room, coiling, drawing nausea from her and making her dizzy with revulsion.

Groggily, she pushed herself to a sitting position.

Jim helped, hands under her arms easing her gently up, before fussily propping an extra pillow behind her back and perching next to her with the tray.

"It's been so long since I've seen you Molls,” ducking his head and adding shyly, "I missed you."

Reaching out, she rested her hand on his arm, smiling kindly. A jolt of pure heat leapt between them and their eyes caught, widening in shock.

Clarity. The fog of confusion sliced neatly away by the blade of the intensity of the moment. _Sexual attraction - for someone other than the sorcerer._

Wracking her brain, she tried to isolate any time she may have had skin to skin contact with Jim in the past. She couldn't think of a single one.

Disturbed by the notion, she resolved to put it aside - easily consoling herself that it was almost certainly a left-over from _him_. Relaxing, she smiled welcomingly at sweet Jim.

Soft dark eyes were raised tentatively to hers, "Would you eat please Molls? You had a funny turn, I- I'm worried." The words stuck in his throat, he seemed to have trouble simply looking at her, his face drawn.

Watching him curiously, Molly wondered at the depth of his feelings for her, and the fact that she'd been oblivious to his admiration, _for how long?_

A few choked down mouthfuls of soup and she began regaining her faculties again, "Does my mother know I'm here?"

Lighting up, "I went and told her myself well, she em, she wanted us to look after you for a bit, so she could sleep a little.”

A chasm opened in Molly's stomach, the shock of an endless plummet took her breath away before remembrance came flooding back, gushing to fill the emptiness with a torrent, roiling and threatening to burst from within her ribcage. She pressed her fingers to her solar plexus as if to stem the flow, as her mother's illness, running to Sherlock - and what had happened then - filled her thoughts, washing the here and now away.

Cheeks flaming, she pondered the… _things_ she had done with _him_. After which, worst of all, he no longer wanted her. No, she lamented, by far the most shameful thing was that _she_ still _ached_ for _him_ , would run to him even now if he but deigned to so much as whistle or clap for her.

"Are you thinking about that sorcerer?"

Jim’s voice broke into her thoughts, husky and low. Avoiding her gaze, he plucked at her blanket. Distress clear in the taut lines of his back, the tension in his neck and the quaver in his voice.

Shame folded itself through the soup in her stomach, souring her meal. _When had she become so wanton?_

Casting the thought and the remaining soup aside, she extended her hand toward him before drawing it back and balling her fist at the last moment, wary of that connection flaring again.

"I need to see my mother Jim."

At this request his eyes finally met hers. His throat working as he swallowed, wordless pity in his tilted head and flattened lips, "Molly - "

"Will you take me Jim? _Please_." Feeling weak but determined.

“I - _yes_ , I’d do anything for you Molls,” he smiled but looked vaguely ashamed at his confession.

~o0oo0oo0o~

The walk was a short one, and the normally busy animal and bird chatter at dusk was oddly absent, rendering the forest eerily silent, though Molly didn’t notice. Jim kept a steady level of chit chat up along the way and she was pleasantly diverted.

“Mum?” Molly called as she walked in, scuffing her boots on the leather scrap nailed to the floor for such use.

No answer.

Frowning, she ushered Jim in, shutting the door firmly behind them. Panic rising, she made her way to her mother’s room. Pushing the door softly, breath held in anticipation as it swung open with a creak.

The room was darkened, dreary, the only source of light a swatch of sunshine stealing in through the badly drawn drapes. It slanted over the bed, across her pillow and up the wall, serving well to showcase the slew of dust motes leisurely dancing about in mid-air that would not have normally have dared to show themselves in the Hooper household.

Jessika Hooper lay on the bed, sleeping. Her breath whistled and wheezed in and out slowly with obvious effort, chest heaving wretchedly on each laborious intake and exhale. Her face had been whittled down and her body wizened in such a short time, leaving behind a mere shadow of her former exuberant presence.

Tears pricked Molly’s eyes before languorously rolling down her face, blurring her vision. “Mum?” Urgency pitching her voice higher, piercing the silence.

As though reining her consciousness in from far away, she came to slowly. Head lolling on the pillow toward her daughter’s voice, while her eyes rolled up in their sockets, seeming to prefer to avoid that bright yellow slash of light.

Stepping to the blinds, Molly tugged them, neatly obscuring the wedge that was causing so much distress to her poor mother.

Murmuring quietly, she smoothed hair back off of her clammy forehead, “Sshh, you need to rest. I’ll look after you.”

Standing up, she moved to tug the corners of her blankets down to check her stomach when she recalled that Jim was there. Turning, she was surprised to find that he had gone. Gently, she peeled the covers down, horrified when the tumour was exposed. It all but pulsed with life, drawing its vitality straight out of her weakened body.

An **_M_** , as clear as can be and perfectly matching that of her father's.

A respectful clearing of his throat in the hallway heralded Jim’s imminent return.

Choking back a sob, she quickly covered her again, mindful of her dignity even in these dark and seemingly hopeless times. Dropping heavily to her knees, Molly draped herself over her supine form. Tears flowed freely, her mother was all that she had left in the world; to lose her was unfathomable.

Jim’s lilt danced in her ears, his breath warm on her neck, ruffling her hair. Rubbing circles on her back, he entreated her, “Molly, give her this.”

Any remaining light in the room seemed to be drawn toward the miniature bottle he held out. Sparkling off of and even through, rainbows fanning out across surfaces, the liquid inside was sapphire blue and gleaming with… _life_?”

“Jim? Wh-What is that? Where did _you_ get it?” She recognised a spell when she saw one, spending time as a sorcerer’s apprentice had familiarised her well enough.

Catching her hands in his own, he tugged her up, “First administer the draft and then we can talk, okay?”

Lost in his dark eyes, she found herself nodding even before she had decided what to do. His hands cradling her own sent tendrils of pleasure spiralling up her inner arms, coiling under her ribs and bidding her to move toward him.

Apprehension, confusion, even as she agreed. _The feeling of being drawn to him was wrong, for how could she be thinking of another when just hours ago she had nearly - she had wanted - she still did want him. Never would she learn how to not love Sherlock, he was her dreams, her mind_ -

As Jim’s hands slipped away, releasing her own, she pulled her thoughts back to here, to her mother.

She lifted her head, huffed a breath out of her nose and closed her eyes briefly in acquiescence, acknowledging the need to focus.

He nodded at her, moving back to allow the two women privacy.

Turning back to her mother, again she resolutely put the sensations he caused out of her mind. With extreme care, she ran the viscous liquid drop by precious drop into her mother’s slightly open mouth and waited, barely remembering to breathe.

Colour bloomed instantly on the apples of her cheeks, peaches, pinks and golds accentuated her beauty and chased away the grey shadows that formerly had marred it.

Molly turned to Jim, cheeks dewy as tears slipped over them, “How did you..? Will she be..?”

With soft eyes, he smiled, tugging her hand, “Come on Molls, let her sleep, a _proper_ sleep. We’ll talk and then you can come back, you’ll want to check a few things with her.”

Allowing herself to be led, she stole one last glance back at her mother, heart bursting with gratitude for the miracle Jim had just bestowed upon them.

~o0oo0oo0o~

They settled themselves at the kitchen table with tea and scones, Molly smiling at Jim every time he looked her way and he blushed and ducked his head in turn.

Lacing her fingers together and leaning back, she waited for him to begin.

Beseechingly, he pleaded, “Please don’t be angry with me Molly I - ” his voice hitched and he fell silent.

Taken aback, she exclaimed, “Angry? Why should I be angry? After what you just did?” Eyes shining with gratitude but wide with disbelief.

Lowering his head, his voice low, he warned, “There’s more.”

Nodding, Molly asked him, “Okay, can you tell me?”

Fiddling with his tea cup, finger looped into its handle, he twisted it around and around, admitting, “Yes, but I'm not sure I want to. I don’t want to lose your... _friendship_ Molls.” His desire for more clear in his hesitation.

Watching him, trepidation telegraphed by his every movement, she wished to reassure him. Catching his eyes, she held them, “Jim, we’ve been friends for years, whatever kind of trouble you’re mixed up in, I _know_ it’s not you.”

Picking up her cup, she took a sip, trying to convey how relaxed and understanding she felt about his imminent confession and certain innocence.

Biting his lip and smoothing his palms across the table, flattening wrinkles in the cloth that simply weren’t there, he took a deep, fortifying breath and began.

“I’m the other sorcerer.”

Cup clattering back into her saucer, she vehemently denied his claim, “ _No_ you’re not, you’re - ”

A dazzling swirl of light shimmered around them, the very dust motes hanging in the air bejewelled and sparkling beautifully. When at last the flash dissipated, Jim was revealed, though not as the same man that Molly had known all this time.

Slicked back hair, his clothes a cut and style of fabric usually reserved for kings or the like. A magnificent cloak dancing and whirling with life.

Molly was struck by the fact that it was not quite like _his_ cape. Where _his_ was made up of technicolour galaxies and whirling star debris. Jim’s cloak was panoramic, a magpie dominated the scene, flapping its wings proudly, ferns furled and unfurled by turns, whilst leaves and feathers drifted along in intricate patterns on slip streams.

Sitting as stone, terror and confusion wrapped Molly in their sticky clutches, rendering her mute.

Jim watched silently, waiting for her. When she gave a slight nod for him to continue, he did so.

“I was going to come here tonight, without you, to give your mum the cure. I - I’m sorry it’s taken me so long, it’s very difficult to counteract another’s spell.” Catching her eye, his smile shy, “Some say impossible, it’s not though, not when there’s,” he cleared his throat, looking away, “ _Love_.”

Rushing on, his words a simple stream of consciousness, or so it seemed to Molly.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save your dad, I hadn’t yet figured out a way to combat the spell with one of my own. I didn't know you had gone to him Molls, I swear. He didn’t… _hurt_ you did he?”

Pale, trembling, her eyes flicked to his, shame painting her cheeks, “No,” she croaked out, “He didn’t, I - ” closing her eyes for a moment, she took a breath. When she opened them again they were glazed with tears that she refused to let spill as she admitted, “I wanted - I _let_ him.” Left unsaid but acknowledged by both was the fact that she _still_ wanted him.

Blowing out a breath, Jim reached over, taking her hand, that _heat_ warming her belly like coals.

“Molls, none of this is your fault, _he_ gave her the potion, he tricked you.” Such sincerity in his tone, such belief in her.

“But he said the spell was cast by a Moriarty? The **_M_** symbol Jim,” fragile hope blooming in her chest.

The look of pity on Jim’s face made it all too clear. Biting his lip, he finally spoke, “It’s not an **_M_** , Molly, it’s a **_W_**.”

The last shred of hope she had clung to tore away. Bereft, horrified, Molly shrunk back, desperately whispering, “But who’s Moriarty?”

Squeezing her hand, “There is no Moriarty, Molly. He used that name to make you overlook the fact that the symbol is a _**W**_.”

Yanking her hand away, she brought them both to her mouth, nausea pooling in her stomach, “William,” she rasped out. “His given name is William, I overheard John teasing him.”

Gasping, horror tightened her chest, frantic, she clawed at her throat, her breath shallow. Guilt overwhelmed, ratcheting tighter and tighter, sealing her up with no oxygen. Madness must surely follow such a loss of reality.

Warm hands grasped her upper arms, guiding her across to sit in his lap, grounding her on the physical plane. Jim’s sweet lilting voice warm in her ear, the panic receding as his words became clearer.

“You cannot be responsible for fighting evil, my darling, just _let_ me look after you, I’ll keep you safe. Haven’t we always had fun Molls? I would never try to take your maidenly virtue from you, I’m not - _him_.”

Ceaselessly his hands moved, brushing her hair and arranging his cloak around them both.

Just like with Sherlock, Molly took no notice of the effect she had on his cloak. Rather than the cinnamons, ambers and chestnuts that flowed and mingled through Sherlock’s cape when she touched him, she and Jim together created an unholy union.

Lightning blazed in a sheet illuminating a flash of the magpie’s skull, its flesh corrupted, rotting right off of its bones. The feathers and leaves were decaying, mouldering and sinking into blackened swamps.

Had she but turned her head she would have seen Jim, eyes dead, staring out into nothing, mouth stretched into an obscene smile that in no way resembled her friend.

After a time her breathing slowed, a mantle of peace descended, or maybe one of numbness.

Clouds rolled in, suddenly dominating the formerly blue, placid sky, fat drops of rain made their way leisurely down, apparently ignorant to gravity and its claim. The slow and steady drip a susurrus which furthered calmed Molly’s nerves and gave her courage.

“Tell me about this then?” She asked bravely as she slipped down off of his knee. Brittle but ready, she waited to hear the story, to hear that which would either condemn Sherlock or her friend Jim.

Jim's eyes were soft and brimming with hope, he smiled at Molly but it was a trembling, fledgling thing and his mouth couldn't hold it. The corners of his lips soon turned down as he regarded her. Taking a breath he began.

"There is a delicate balance holding this world of ours together. A long time ago events that could upset that balance were set into motion by a woman. An angelic, beautifully pure, mortal woman, very much like yourself."

When Molly blushed, Jim gave her a wan smile, "I do not say that to flatter you my darling," adding with a self-deprecating huff, "However much I may wish to do just that."

Molly smiled uncertainly, this new Jim would take some getting used to, he was eloquent, ardent and more than a little handsome.

"No, when I say she was very much like you, I mean she looked and behaved _exactly_ as you do.”

Waving his hands in an arc, he mumbled some indistinguishable words under his breath in the language of ago, the same language she’d heard Sherlock using to great effect upon occasion. A flash of yellow, as bright as the buttercups that dotted the meadows, and a sphere opened, creating a window to another time.

Gasping, Molly’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide as she took in a mirror image of herself running through the forest. She _was_ watching herself, surely. She started when she realised that the girl - the other Molly - was being pursued by a man.

Blonde, tall as a tree and built like one, his green eyes incandescent with vitality. Molly thought that he even might have been the equal of Sherlock’s beauty. Though a whisper in the back of her mind assured her that to all other women, nay men too - who were not soul bonded to Sherlock - would agree that this light filled, virile man was god-like and glorious in his physicality and no one else quite his compare.

As he caught her likenesses wrist, Molly’s heart thumped in her throat, fear spreading out from her belly, for beauty, attraction, never implies consent.

Her doppelgänger turned and laughed, joy in her every movement, “Now you've caught me, what will you do to me my lord?” She asked coyly.

With a wolfish smile, he answered, simple, clear and to the point. Lifting her, he pressed her against the nearest tree, threading her legs around his waist, his hands rucking up her skirt so his fingertips could trail over her smooth thighs. Holding eye contact, he leaned in achingly slowly, drawing her towards him before pressing his lips to hers. Deepening the kiss - he appeared to be attempting to _devour_ her - causing the girl to moan.

Eyes wide, a flush spreading across her cheeks and chest, Molly looked away.

Needing to show no more, Jim waved his hand in an elegant arc, this time culminating in a closed fist, sealing the key hole and with it their view.

Cheeks blazing, she wondered if _she_ had looked so utterly _taken_ when she had been with Sherlock. Gathering her courage, she stammered out nervously, “Wh-Who was that Jim?”

Balling her fists she waited for the answer, rather terrified that he would tell her that it was herself, a future self. After all she had done with Sherlock, she had to wonder if she wasn’t on the road to becoming just that type of girl.

Quietly, looking extremely uncomfortable, “That was the beginning of all I must tell you. She was your ancestor and she made a choice.”

He puffed out a breath and looked out the window as if the answers might be found dancing across the tree tops. After a moment, in a barely audible voice he added, “The _wrong_ choice.”

Fear spiked her heart beat and set her hands fluttering in her lap, purposeless, “What does this have to do with me?”

An apology in his manner, Jim said in a hushed tone, “Let me tell you the tale in the right order, I promise you’ll understand when I’m done, probably more than you would wish to.”

Frozen, Molly stared at him, trying to parse his meaning. Nothing was given away by his expression, other than apprehension, he seemed oddly… _blank_.

With great trepidation, Molly finally whispered, “Okay, I’ll listen.”

“That _man_ that your predecessor was so enamoured with was actually a God. Camalus, a God of war. He took human form upon occasion to come and be amongst the mortals, it was somewhat of a hobby for him. For thousands of years he had done so and never encountered a problem. Until he met Pearl - "

" _Pearl_?" Molly started, "My name means pearl..." She trailed off looking thoughtful.

"Yes, you were named Margaret for a reason Molly, as I said, you'll want to check things with your mother.”

Again he looked at her with that curious mix of pity and fear.

Though her head was spinning with a flurry of questions, she kept her word. Assuming her silence in order to let him tell it in the order he deemed necessary.

Jim kept up his vigil over the trees that could be seen swaying in the breeze, unable or unwilling to hold her gaze.

”Things became physical with Pearl, they were ah," here he himself blushed, clearing his throat and looking more like Jim again, despite the finery he was draped in. Taking a breath he pressed on, " _Intimate_. Camalus was not free. His wife spied on them, not only did he use her body - which maybe she could have forgiven him for - no, she heard him making a _declaration_ , he spoke of love. A word he had never given freely to his wife. He loved _her_ , a mortal. Enraged, she moved to strike this girl down.”

Sitting forward, utterly rapt in the narrative he was weaving around her, she waited with bated breath for him to continue.”

“Her husband heard her muttering and spirited Pearl away. They were brought before the council and it was then discovered that the mortal girl was pregnant.”

Closing his eyes, he sighed, looking as though he was in pain.

Drawing breath, Molly opened her mouth, before her lips could so much as form a shape, he spoke again.

“Pregnant with the child of a God.” The words were heavy and lacked finesse, they fell noisily between them with a thud.

Eyes wide, Molly stared at him, finally croaking out, “ _My_ ancestor?”

Moving his hand to cover hers, he brushed his thumb back and forth. His features strained, his worry and concern plain for her to see.

Although the motion was soothing it was also uncomfortable, that heat pulsing through her again was… _distracting_. Pulling away, she folded her hands primly in her lap, then taking a gulping breath, she nodded her intention for him to continue.

Inclining his head to her, he continued his fraught tale. “His wife called to cull the land of mortals, to start fresh, be done with their heathen ways. Camalus petitioned for mercy, he claimed the fault of the deed for himself, she, the mortal girl had not come to find him, she had not ever known of his marriage and most importantly, how could she resist a God?"

Molly was nodding along thoughtfully.

Taking that as his cue to keep going, he kept filling in the details of this wild and tragic tale. "There was a great debate amongst the Gods, with some taking her side and some taking his. A few were rather raucous in their praise for his cunning in taking a sweet mortal girl, plucking her when ripe and juicy, like a peach from a tree."

There was an apology in his eyes as he described this to Molly, a nod to the crass nature of some of the story.

Thanking him with a thin smile for his wish to shelter her thusly, she encouraged him, "Go on Jim."

"So after many days had turned into weeks and those in turn had had become months, the baby was born and still the solution remained unfound. When the baby was brought to the council, all present agreed that although the child was not a demigod as Camalus had assumed human form at the time, it was nonetheless, one of their own. It was decided that the babe and her mother would be allowed to live but that her child's children would bear the burden of the mother's sin.”

Pausing, Jim looked at Molly, she motioned for him to go on but she was pale, shaking wildly and barely held together.

“Every twenty-fifth daughter would be put to the test. A choice, made - always without her knowledge - between a light or a dark sorcerer. Her decision would be the path of clemency or destruction for all life in this world. You mark the tenth time that a daughter of Pearl has been called upon to reach this decision.”

Here his voice became sad, wistful even, “The God’s tire Molly, no one is afraid of them the way they used to be, mortals no longer tremble when their names are spoken, they believe they are not being given their due. So this time is different, they have given you a connection with the _dark_ sorcerer that you do not have with me, they have given _him_ an advantage.” Holding his hands out, palms up, as if to show that he was playing with an empty deck, he smiled wanly.

Feeling utterly adrift, Molly found herself scrambling for a safe harbour, a place to think without either sorcerer influencing. “I need to think, Jim. I need to talk to my mother.”

Obliging as ever, he agreed immediately, “Of course, Molls, I’ll wait here - ”

Out of patience, she snapped, “No Jim, I need some space, I’ll come and find you okay? I need time to process, a lot has happened.”

Taking in his crestfallen face, she added, “Thank you, _truly_ , for what you did for my mother, I will not forget Jim.”

Hesitating for a moment, she took his hand in her own, steadfastly ignoring the pulse that throbbed between them. “You’re my friend and I don't want you to feel badly but this has been a lot for me to take in, so I'm sure you understand, I need you to leave."

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he looked worried and unhappy but nodded his acquiescence. "You will come and find me Molly? I need to protect you and - "

Holding up her hands, growing wary now, her jaw set, "I _can_ take care of _myself_ Jim, I've done okay so far, I'm not so helpless as you seem to want to believe."

Contrite, he swallowed thickly and nodded, "Sorry Molls, of course, I just - I'll go." Pushing his chair out from the table, he got up and walked towards the door, his cape and finery already dissolving back to plainer clothing as he moved.

Unable to see his expression, she could see the set of his shoulders and the way he seemed to droop. Softening a little, regretting her brash anger - none of this was his fault after all - she murmured, "Thank you Jim, I'll see you soon, I will."

He turned and gave her such a heart broken smile that she nearly relented, he must've seen it in her face because he looked triumphantly hopeful for a moment, taking half a step, real joy shining in his eyes.

Hardening her features, she shut him down, she needed this.

The door clicked shut quietly behind him and overwhelming relief had her sagging. Her body wanted sleep but her heart and her mind desperately wished to see her mother up and about or, at the least, fed.

A quick perusal of the pantry yielded nothing beyond the slightly stale scones she had laid out for Jim and of course, tea. Clearly the scones had been brought over by their closest neighbour, Doris. She was always happy to help, they’d often enough done the same for her in times of ill luck or health.

Walking along the adjoining path, utterly absorbed by thoughts of Jim and Sherlock, dark and light and what possible information her mother could be privy to.

So deep was she in her mind that she started when a bullfinch landed on her shoulder, his beautiful bright red plumage puffed proudly as he twittered in her ear.

Grinning, happy to see her new friend, Molly whispered conspiratorially, “You got a secret for me, do you? Where’s your lady? We’ll get her some fruit and you can be Mr Popular.” Winking at him, she was surprised when another bird took her opposite shoulder. Turning her head slightly, she discovered it was a sweet little Blue Tit.

The Blue Tit chattered away happily and then began dragging its beak through her hair, grooming. Not to be out done, the bullfinch took up the monumental task on its own side.

After obtaining the bread from her neighbour and a bone for broth, during which Doris was barely able to draw breath for speech, she was laughing so hard.

And truthfully, who wouldn't, when faced with Molly’s pint sized companions, so tenacious and willing in their self-appointed task to clean Molly's mane of hair.

She herself had felt amused by the birds but not altogether surprised. Between the blackbird who had lately given her a coin, to the talking cat, Toby and the memorable cow and bull in the field on _that_ day.. Well, she was getting used to animals being around and behaving in heretofore unknown ways, besides only a part of this was new, animals had always come to her, since she was a small child.

In fact her parents used to fear for her safety when as a baby, neighbourhood animals would bring her 'offerings' from the forest and lay them at her feet in her cot while she slept.

~o0oo0oo0o~

Sitting across from her well-fed mother, basking in the change that had swept over her. It was the difference between night and day, summer and winter, Sherlock and Jim. Eating, smiling, chatting, it was nothing short of miraculous.

Over her tea cup, Molly regarded her mother, easily judging by the latter’s expression that she already had more than a fair idea of what she wished to discuss.

With a sombre expression, Jessika spoke. “When I was a little girl, my mother sat me down and told me a story, a tale about our ancestor, Pearl. She explained that when I grew up I would have a little girl and that I must call her - _you_ \- Margaret and that you would be the twenty fifth daughter in line and would be tasked with a burden.”

“A _choice_ ,” Molly interjected, her gaze fierce. She wasn't angry with her mother but she did feel as though she was owed the truth, this was happening to _her_ and she’d had no warning.

Nodding miserably, her voice broke, “Yes, a choice."

With a deep sigh she told Molly what she knew. "The fate of our world would hang upon your shoulders. You would choose between the cure and the kill. I didn't believe her, in these modern times? How could it be true? It sounded like an ancient bed time story told to children whose parents did not wish to relinquish control when their child was of an age to pick who they might marry, a mere tale."

Unable to hide her emotions completely, “And yet you chose to call me _Margaret_?” She challenged, her bottom lip wobbling no matter how she pressed them together.

“I didn't wish to make trouble, I loved my mother." Tilting her head, imploring, "I called you _Molly_ , really.”

“ _No_ , you didn’t, my name is _Margaret_ , Mum, Molly has always been a nickname. Were I to marry what name would be listed on the ledger? Molly Hooper? Or _Margaret_ Hooper?”

In a desperate whisper, “I didn’t believe it was real,” reaching out a hand to take Molly’s own.

Snatching her hand back, Molly hissed at her, "And when I told you about my dreams?”

“I thought it was a passing fancy, a mage with a crush, a _coincidence_... And then when I met him, he was so nice. I tried - ” pausing, her brow furrowed. “Molly, I _was_ going to speak to you about it, but then I found I could only agree to you going to him. After that I started feeling ill and I - "

Molly buried her face in her hands, sobbing, “Oh Mum. I’m so confused, I _love_ him but I think he’s dark and I just - he sent me away. And I don't believe that he hurt you, he wouldn't. But Jim is a sorcerer too and he claims he's the light one and he fixed you, so he must be good but all I can think of is _him_. And he must be trying to be good? Otherwise, why send me away?”

Sucking in a deep, shuddering breath, she finally slowed and looked at her mother, her eyes filled with hope that her Mum could fix this as easily as she had once fixed scraped knees.

“Oh honey, I’m sorry this has all fallen on you, I wish it to the Gods it wasn’t yours to bear, you’ve always been my special girl.” Tears glistened in her mother’s eyes, her face a mask of pain. Though this time the pain was not physical in nature, it cut just as deep.

“She - _Pearl_ \- looked like me, Mum, Jim showed me, am I _her_?”

Jessika’s eyes swept up to hers, holding her gaze, she told her, “No honey, you listen to me, you are _not_ her, you’re you, you’re _my_ _Molly_ and I believe in you. You will make the right decision, you just have to trust yourself, you will know what is right.”

Miserable, she squared her shoulders resolutely and nodded, “My body must belong to Jim but my heart, my soul, will always remain his, they've been his since the very first dream anyway. That’ll have to do, I can do no less for the world we inhabit and I can do no more for my own heart.”

Allowing her mother to fold her into her arms, they sat together while Molly wept and wailed. Jessika shushed her and rubbed her back, just like she had done when her daughter was a small child.

~o0oo0oo0o~

For Molly the summer seemed to fly past, in spite of her near constant thoughts of Sherlock she slowly began to see how she could make a life with Jim.

They had been courting and she couldn't deny that there was an attraction there, certainly her pulse jumped when he touched her; certainly she was at least _curious_ if his kiss would affect her. Jim had been very patient, had in fact been the perfect gentleman but there was a foreboding sense of time running out.

Making up her mind to allow him to kiss her was by no means easy, her heart rebelled at the thought and she had, on more than one occasion, considered going to Sherlock and simply seducing him, the world be damned; but alas, that simply wasn’t her nature.

“Would you like to walk me home Jim?” She asked with a smile full of promises.

He regarded her without moving for a long moment and then, eyes widening, he’d scrambled to his feet and grabbed at his coat. In his nervous foolishness he’d managed to knock over a basket of red apples, once loose they'd spread out like a blood stain across the table.

Laughing, Mrs Galster had waved them off, “Go on then, my boy, you go have some time with your sweetheart.”

Manic laughter had bubbled up from his chest, nervous, happy and perfectly out of place.

The forest was quiet, as though the animals themselves were waiting, holding their collective breath until they had the news.

Bumping his shoulder against her own, Jim asked, “Where are you off to in your head, Miss Molly?”

Turning to him and smiling, she assured him, “Nowhere Jim, I’m right here. Promise.”

Threading his hand into hers, his voice husky, “Molly?”

He looked so sincere, so sweet, nothing at all like _him_. He wasn’t commanding, he didn't dominate the room, didn’t for that matter, dominate her heart, but she must try.

Closing her eyes and tilting her head invitingly up, she wilfully ignored the outrage in her heart, in her soul. She had a duty, she would not shirk it.

Breath, warm, smelling faintly of the apples he so favoured, fanned out across her face as he moved in toward her. When at last his soft lips touched her own, she was surprised to feel a bolt of lust, going to ground through her suddenly aching sex.

When he took her lips again soft rain pattered down over them and though the kiss may well have grown from that point, there was no chance to find out.

The appearance of a beautiful dark haired woman purring, "Hello lovers," marked a surprising and unexpected interruption.

Molly’s eyes flicked open, turning, her gaze landed on a beautiful woman who was observing the two of them with open interest, amusement, and... _arousal_?

“Oh don’t stop on my account, things were just getting fun.” She pouted playfully.

A hot spike of jealousy at the intimate way this woman regarded Jim, surprised Molly.

“Actually, I believe I _will_ interrupt, Molly here has need of a female confidant, someone to teach her the ways of the world."

Frowning in disbelief, she disagreed, “I do _not_ , besides, I don't even know you,” she finished hotly.

Hooking her arm through Molly’s, she leaned in, close enough for her breath to feel damp against Molly’s ear. “Ah, but you’ll want to… I can help you stop thinking about _him_ and start thinking about Jim.”

Molly whipped her head around to look at the woman whispering in her ear, so quickly that they very nearly collided, neither one flinched as they eyed each other.

A pair of cautious, speculative, eyes searched and catalogued a knowing face and a blood red smile that promised the sharing of a certain type of secrets.

When Irene held her crooked arm out to Molly to take, the latter did so without hesitation, leaving Jim looking on with the air of one who has been abandoned for a better offer.

“Don’t you worry Jim, I’m only borrowing her, she won’t come back damaged,” smiling, she added, “Well, not _much_ ,” she winked.

“Just us girls having a little a heart to heart,” she trilled out over her shoulder, leading Molly away.

 

~0o00o00o0~

Cursing, Sherlock dashed the potion to the ground. _Useless, all of it._

 _Nothing_ had come out right and though he had a talent for self-deception, he damn well knew why.

Though he refused to even _think_ her name and had forbidden Toby to utter it, his awareness of her remained complete. She had stolen in, like a thief in the night and wallpapered each and every room of his mind place with images of herself. He was surrounded by her and yet utterly bereft of her presence, her joy, her laughter, her _love_ , all the interminably long, hot summer.

She missed him. She was angry, afraid, confused, but she still wanted him, still _yearned_ for him. Her emotions were like a beacon. He could no more turn away from them than a moth could keep from circling the flame of a lantern or a mouse could resist that forbidden morsel, nestled snugly inside a sprung trap. He understood ships dashing themselves on rocks as sailors, captains and pirates alike fell prey to the mermaids and their siren songs.

His only salvation had been the fact that he’d managed to find a way to stop the dreams, or she had, whatever had happened, they’d stopped, and he'd not given it much thought beyond that. He hadn’t given _anything_ much conscious thought these days beyond Moriarty.

He was engulfed by evidence of Moriarty’s presence, his work and yet, he simply couldn't be found. He was a ghost, an invisible man, there had been no sightings of any sorcerer all summer long and yet all the animals could talk of were the futures that had been traded. All sorts of accidents had befallen the good folk of the forest this year but each incident seemed only to send him on a merry chase, they each appeared to originate from a different place.

And so his thoughts belonged to Moriarty.

But his heart belonged to _her_.

A tinkling sound began to form in the air around him, gaining volume as a shimmering, iridescent dust began to form a cloud in front of him and an extremely disinterested Toby.

All of this of course, heralded The White Witch Hudson, he recognised the signs easily, though it had been an age since his childhood, he still recalled it perfectly.

Rolling his eyes, he widened his stance, ready and willing to tell her to mind her own business. _It didn't matter that Molly was engaged to some short arse who likely couldn't distinguish his arse from his elbow, because he, Sherlock Holmes, didn’t care._

_And even if he did, it was far too late._

As the dust began to coalesce into the witch, the first parts to materialise were her disappointed face and her index finger, pointing at him.

Sherlock drew breath to speak but a moment too late.

The process sped up once the face was complete and Witch Hudson admonished, "You know I'm getting too old for this my boy, I'm your white witch dear, _not_ your fairy godmother."

Running his hands through his hair, light refracting off of the array of jewels that he had furnished his fingers with, he groaned. "Why are you here then? Because if it's about the little mortal girl I won't speak of her, she's engaged to some local idiot, so she's safe.

Cocking her head to the side, sighing, "I can see why they picked you, it's cruel, that poor girl, I mean, _Sherlock_... The mess you've made."

"I can assure you, _Witch_ ," he informed her in an icy tone. "That I am by no means _thick_ , and am most assuredly well up to the task of defeating the dark one."

Pity now in her gaze, "Sherlock, you _need_ her."

Drawing himself up to his full height, he barked, " _Mrs_ Hudson, I can assure you that _I_ need nothing and _no_ _one_."

From across the room Toby hissed indignantly and Sherlock seemed to deflate a little, "I just want her to be safe, she _won't_ be safe with me, do you see?" He pleaded.

With a careworn sigh, the witch sat down, gesturing for him to join.

He did so, albeit reluctantly.

"I'm not allowed to show you this but I can’t - ” her voice cracked, "I _cannot_ stand by and watch this happening.”

Taking a silk pouch from the folds of her dress, she tugged on the draw string and tipped the gloriously intricate golden spirals it contained into her hand. Then flinging them up in an arc, she allowed them to dissolve and create a window, much the same as Moriarty had, only this time, the window only went so far back into the past as late spring.

Sherlock sat stony faced as he saw Jim gift the potion to Molly. When he revealed himself as the other sorcerer, Sherlock paled. When he sat her down and tricked her into thinking she had poisoned her own mother, his grip on his cup tightened, ratcheting ever tighter until the cup shattered, clay grinding to dust in his fist.

Lightning ripped at the sky, thunder boomed, undulating across the sky outside like waves crashing to shore, without cessation.

The sight of Molly sitting on that _thing_ \- that _spider's_ \- knee and seeing how his cape responded had him rushing to the tub to vomit. Again and again he heaved, until he was but a hollowed out husk, an empty vessel. Yet still his body wracked him with pulse after pulse.

The witch sat waiting, his traitorous cat curled and purring upon her lap. Neither she, nor Toby made a single move to help him, he needed to feel this, he needed to see what he had allowed to come to pass.

At last, cleaned up and stomach settled, he returned to the table.

Witch Hudson took his hand, squeezed it and nodded at him, the message was clear; you _will_ fix this because you _must_.

He watched Pearl and her lover and finally he understood, she wasn’t fully mortal, every twenty fifth daughter of Pearl would have that golden spark breathed into life within them, they would hold the future of the world within the palm of their delicate hand and they would be able to be turned, to be immortal, whether by the good sorcerer or the dark.

It wasn't hard to figure it out, every twenty fifth daughter had fallen in love with the light sorcerer and the mage in turn with the girl. This time was different, as Moriarty had said, this time they had stacked the deck, they gave the mantle to a good sorcerer who believed love to be a weakness; in love with her, worshipping the very ground she stepped upon, he had nonetheless sent her away.

He had to laugh at his arrogance, he'd thought it all to do with himself, a grand destiny to be played out with the world as his stage. But it was all _her_ , she wasn't just the catalyst. No incendiary device was she, to initiate the spark and then be cast aside like so much driftwood.

Backwards, he'd had it all turned inside out, he'd fallen for the ruse, hook line and sinker, only instead of a pretty girl, they'd used a criminal and his own massive ego as bait. Ironically, keeping his eyes on the pretty girl in this case would have made all the difference.

Moriarty on the other hand, had been given _all_ of the information, the knowledge that _she_ was the key piece, not the other sorcerer. So he was in a position to use that knowledge to his advantage, he couldn't make her fall in love but he could easily gain her freely given consent by using trickery,

When he saw Moriarty leaving he placed his palms on the table, face down, ready to push up from his seat, needing to clear his head.

He’d lost her, he'd lost Molly, thrown her to the wolves and in doing so, he’d lost the whole world. All because he was too childish to admit his love to a terrifying, tiny mortal girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you catch your line Lily Bee? Sherlock agreed with you, he really has thrown her to the wolves... 
> 
> Thanks for reading, it means the world, writing is incredibly difficult and time consuming and sometimes just plain awful... But when you catch that up drift and soar, bliss... I wouldn't experience without you readers who stick with me, for me it's about the sharing..
> 
> Tumblr? Come and find me! I’m [sweet-sweet-escape](http://sweet-sweet-escape.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos? Comments? [Tumblr?](http://sweet-sweet-escape.tumblr.com)


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